THE   FOLLY   OF  EUSTACE 

AND   OTHER  STORIES 


Other  Books  by  R.  S.  Hichens. 

An  Imaginative  Man. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"There  is  a  vividness  and  a  dramatic  force  throughout 
the  book  that  are  truly  wonderful,  and  both  as  a  study  and 
a  story  it  has  almost  unsurpassed  interest." — Boston  Home 
Journal. 

"The  plan  is  excellent,  and  it  is  worked  out  artistically. 
The  dialogues  bristle  with  epigrams,  and  good  ones, 
and  some  of  the  author's  word-painting  is  remarkably 
graphic." — Milwaukee  Journal. 

' '  The  story  is  fresh  in  the  description  of  places  and 
people,  and  shows  the  author  to  be  a  genuine  artist." — 
Boston  Advertiser. 

The  Green  Carnation. 

i6mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  The  most  delicious  bit  of  satire  that  the  '  modern ' 
school  has  yet  called  forth." — Philadelphia  Times. 

"  The  brilliant  narrative  runs  on,  never  ceasing  to  be 
smart,  cutting,  and  absurd.  You  enjoy  it ;  you  can  not  lay 
the  book  down." — London  Academy. 

"Brimful  of  good  things,  and  exceedingly  clever.  .  .  . 
The  character  sketches  are  admirable." — London  World. 


New  York  :    D.   APPLETON   &   Co. ,   72  Fifth  Avenue. 


Cbe  Tolly  of  eustacc 


find  Otbcr  Stories 


By 
Robert  S.  fiicbcns 

Huthor  of  Hn  Imaginative  man,  Cbc  Green  Carnation,  etc. 


new  York 
D.  flppleton  and  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 

PACE 

THE  FOLLY  OF  EUSTACE i 

THE   RETURN   OF  THE   SOUL 51 

THE  COLLABORATORS 138 


1733046 


THE   FOLLY   OF   EUSTACE. 


SOME  men  deliberately  don  a  character 
in  early  youth  as  others  don  a  mask  before 
going  to  an  opera  ball.  They  select  it  not 
without  some  care,  being  guided  in  their 
choice  by  the  opinion  they  have  formed  of 
the  world's  mind  and  manner  of  proceeding. 
In  the  privacy  of  the  dressing-room,  the 
candles  being  lighted  and  the  mirror  ad- 
justed at  the  best  angle  for  a  view  of  self, 
they  assume  their  character,  and  peacock  to 
their  reflection,  meditating:  Does  it  become 
me  ?  Will  it  be  generally  liked  ?  Will  it 
advance  me  towards  my  heart's  desire  ? 
Then  they  catch  up  their  cloak,  twist  the 
mirror  back  to  its  usual  position,  puff  out 
the  candles,  and  steal  forth  into  their  career, 
shutting  the  door  gently  behind  them.  And, 
perhaps  till  they  are  laid  out  in  the  grave, 
the  last  four  walls  enclosing  them,  only  the 
dressing-room  could  tell  their  secret.  And 
i 


®he  .foils  of  (£nstace. 


it  has  no  voice  to  speak.  For,  if  they  are 
wise,  they  do  not  keep  a  valet. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  Eustace  Lane  chose 
his  mask,  lit  the  candles,  tried  it  on,  and  re- 
solved to  wear  it  at  the  great  masquerade. 
He  was  an  Eton  boy  at  the  time.  One  fourth 
of  June  he  was  out  in  the  playing-fields,  pay- 
ing polite  attentions  to  another  fellow's  sis- 
ter, when  he  overheard  a  fragment  of  a  con- 
versation that  was  taking  place  between  his 
mother  and  one  of  the  masters.  His  mother 
was  a  kind  Englishwoman,  who  was  very 
short-sighted,  and  always  did  her  duty.  The 
master  was  a  fool,  but  as  he  was  tall,  hand- 
some, and  extremely  good-natured,  Eustace 
Lane  and  most  people  considered  him  to  be 
highly  intelligent.  Eustace  caught  the  sound 
of  his  name  pronounced.  The  fond  mother, 
in  the  course  of  discreet  conversation,  had 
proceeded  from  the  state  of  the  weather  to 
the  state  of  her  boy's  soul,  taking,  with  the 
ease  of  the  mediocre,  the  one  step  between 
the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous.  She  had  told 
the  master  the  state  of  the  weather — which, 
for  once,  was  sublime ;  she  wanted  him,  in 
return,  to  tell  her  the  state  of  her  boy's  soul 
— which  was  ridiculous. 

Eustace  forgot  the  other  fellow's  sister, 
her  limpid  eyes,  her  open-worked  stockings, 


.foils  of  (Eustace. 


her  panoply  of  chiffons  and  of  charms.  He 
had  heard  his  own  name.  Bang  went  the 
door  on  the  rest  of  the  world,  shutting  out 
even  feminine  humanity.  Self-consciousness 
held  him  listening.  His  mother  said  : 

"  Dear  Eustace  !  What  do  you  think  of 
him,  Mr.  Bembridge  ?  Is  he  really  clever  ? 
His  father  and  I  consider  him  unusually  in- 
telligent for  his  age — so  advanced  in  mind. 
He  judges  for  himself,  you  know.  He  always 
did,  even  as  a  baby.  I  remember  when  he 
was  quite  a  tiny  mite  I  could  always  trust  to 
his  perceptions.  In  my  choice  of  nurses  I 
was  invariably  guided  by  him.  If  he  screamed 
at  them  I  felt  that  there  was  something 
wrong,  and  dismissed  them — of  course  with 
a  character.  If  he  smiled  at  them,  I  knew 
I  could  have  confidence  in  their  virtue.  How 
strange  these  things  are !  What  is  it  in  us 
that  screams  at  evil  and  smiles  at  good?" 

"Ah!  what,  indeed?"  replied  the  master, 
accepting  her  conclusion  as  an  established 
and  very  beautiful  fact.  "  There  is  more  in 
the  human  heart  than  you  and  I  can  fathom, 
Mrs.  Lane." 

"Yes, indeed!  But  tell  me  about  Eustace. 
You  have  observed  him  ?  " 

"  Carefully.     He  is  a  strange  boy." 

"  Strange  ? " 


)e  .foils  of  (Snstace. 


"Whimsical,  I  mean.  How  clever  he  may 
be  I  am  unable  to  say.  He  is  so  young,  and, 
of  course,  undeveloped.  But  he  ,is  an  origi- 
nal. Even  if  he  never  displays  great  talents 
the  world  will  talk  about  him." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Lane  in  some  alarm. 

To  be  talked  about  was,  she  considered, 
to  be  the  prey  of  scandalmongers.  She  did 
not  wish  to  give  her  darling  to  the  lions. 

"  I  mean  that  Eustace  has  a  strain  of 
quaint  fun  in  him — a  sort  of  passion  for  the 
burlesque  of  life.  You  do  not  often  find  this 
in  boys.  It  is  new  to  my  experience.  He 
sees  the  peculiar  side  of  everything  with  a 
curious  acuteness.  Life  presents  itself  to 

him  in  caricature.  I Well  hit !  Well 

hit  indeed ! " 

Someone  had  scored  a  four. 

The  other  fellow's  sister  insisted  on  mov- 
ing to  a  place  whence  they  could  see  the 
cricket  better,  and  Eustace  had  to  yield  to 
her.  But  from  that  moment  he  took  no  more 
interest  in  her  artless  remarks  and  her  artful 
open-worked  stockings.  In  the  combat  be- 
tween self  and  her  she  went  to  the  wall.  He 
stood  up  before  the  mirror  looking  steadfast- 
ly at  his  own  image. 

And,  finding  it  not  quite  so  interestingly 
curious  as  the  fool  of  a  master  had  declared 


,£0112  0f  (Eustace. 


it  to  be,  he  lit  some  more  candles,  selected  a 
mask,  and  put  it  on. 

He  chose  the  mask  of  a  buffoon. 

From  that  day  Eustace  strove  consistently 
to  live  up  to  the  reputation  given  to  him  by 
a  fool,  who  had  been  talking  at  random  to 
please  an  avid  mother.  Mr.  Bembridge  knew 
that  the  boy  was  no  good  at  work,  wanted  to 
say  something  nice  about  him,  and  had  once 
noticed  him  playing  some  absurd  but  very 
ordinary  boyish  prank.  On  this  supposed 
hint  of  character  the  master  spoke.  Mrs. 
Lane  listened.  Eustace  acted.  A  sudden 
ambition  stirred  within  him.  To  be  known, 
talked  about,  considered,  perhaps  even  won- 
dered at — was  not  that  a  glory  ?  Such  a 
glory  came  to  the  greatly  talented — to  the 
mightily  industrious.  Men  earned  it  by  la- 
bour, by  intensity,  insensibility  to  fatigue, 
the  "roughing  it"  of  the  mind.  He  did  not 
want  to  rough  it.  Nor  was  he  greatly  tal- 
ented. But  he  was  just  sharp  enough  to  see, 
as  he  believed,  a  short  and  perhaps  easy  way 
to  a  thing  that  his  conceit  desired  and  that 
his  egoism  felt  it  could  love.  Being  only  a 
boy,  he  had  never,  till  this  time,  deliberately 
looked  on  life  as  anything.  Now  he  set  him- 
self, in  his,  at  first,  youthful  way,  to  look  on 


of  (Eustace. 


it  as  burlesque — to  see  it  in  caricature.  How 
to  do  that  ?  He  studied  the  cartoons  in  Van- 
ity Fair,  the  wondrous  noses,  the  astounding 
trousers,  that  delight  the  cynical  world.  Were 
men  indeed  like  these  ?  Did  they  assume  such 
postures,  stare  with  such  eyes,  revel  in  such 
complexions  ?  These  were  the  celebrities  of 
the  time.  They  all  looked  with  one  accord 
preposterous.  Eustace  jumped  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  were  what  they  looked,  and, 
going  a  step  farther,  that  they  were  celebrated 
because  they  were  preposterous.  Gifted  with 
a  certain  amount  of  imagination,  this  idea  of 
the  interest,  almost  the  beauty  of  the  prepos- 
terous, took  a  firm  hold  of  his  mind.  One 
day  he,  too,  would  be  in  Vanity  Fair,  display- 
ing terrific  boots,  amazing  thin  legs,  a  fatu- 
ous or  a  frenetic  countenance  to  the  great 
world  of  the  unknown.  He  would  stand  out 
from  the  multitude  if  only  by  virtue  of  an 
unusual  eyeglass,  a  particular  glove,  the  fash- 
ion of  his  tie  or  of  his  temper.  He  would 
balance  on  the  ball  of  peculiarity,  and  toe 
his  way  up  the  spiral  of  fame,  while  the  mu- 
sic-hall audience  applauded  and  the  man- 
agers consulted  as  to  the  increase  of  his  sal- 
ary. Mr.  Bembridge  had  shown  him  a  weapon 
with  which  he  might  fight  his  way  quickly  to 
the  front.  He  picked  it  up  and  resolved  to 


.foils  of  (Enstace. 


use  it.  Soon  he  began  to  slash  out  right  and 
left.  His  blade  chanced  to  encounter  the  out- 
raged body  of  an  elderly  and  sardonic  master. 
Eustace  was  advised  that  he  had  better  leave 
Eton.  His  father  came  down  by  train  and 
took  him  away. 

As  they  journeyed  up  to  town,  Mr.  Lane 
lectured  and  exhorted,  and  Eustace  looked 
out  of  the  window.  Already  he  felt  himself 
near  to  being  a  celebrity.  He  had  astonished 
Eton.  That  was  a  good  beginning.  Papa 
might  prose,  knowing,  of  course,  nothing  of 
the  poetry  of  caricature,  of  the  wild  joys  and 
the  laurels  that  crown  the  whimsical.  So 
while  Mr.  Lane  hunted  adjectives,  and  ran 
sad-sounding  and  damnatory  substantives  to 
earth,  Eustace  hugged  himself,  and  secretly 
chuckled  over  his  pilgrim's  progress  towards 
the  pages  of  Vanity  fair. 

"  Eustace  !  Eustace  !  Are  you  listening 
to  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Then  what  have  you  to  say  ?  What  ex- 
planation have  you  to  offer  for  your  conduct  ? 
You  have  behaved  like  a  buffoon,  sir — d'you 
hear  me  ? — like  a  buffoon  !  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  '  yes,' 
sir  ?  " 


8  ®he  .foils  of  (Eustace. 

Eustace  considered,  while  Mr.  Lane  puffed 
in  the  approved  paternal  fashion  What  did 
he  mean  ?  A  sudden  thought  struck  him. 
He  became  confidential.  With  an  earnest 
gaze,  he  said : 

"  I  couldn't  help  doing  what  I  did.  I  want 
to  be  like  the  other  fellows,  but  somehow  I 
can't.  Something  inside  of  me  won't  let  me 
just' go  on  as  they  do.  1  don't  know  why  it 
is,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  must  do  original  things 
— things  other  people  never  do  ;  it — it  seems 
in  me." 

Mr.  Lane  regarded  him  suspiciously,  but 
Eustace  had  clear  eyes,  and  knew,  at  least, 
how  to  look  innocent. 

"  We  shall  have  to  knock  it  out  of  you," 
blustered  the  father. 

"  I  wish  you  could,  father,"  the  boy  said. 
"  I  know  I  hate  it." 

Mr.  Lane  began  to  be  really  puzzled. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  words, 
and  especially  in  the  way  they  were  spoken. 
He  stared  at  Eustace  meditatively. 

"  So  you  hate  it,  do  you  ? "  he  said  rather 
limply  at  last.  "  Well,  that's  a  step  in  the 
right  direction,  at  any  rate.  Perhaps  things 
might  have  been  worse." 

Eustace  did  not  assent. 

"  They  were  bad  enough,"  he  said,  with  a 


iToilg  of  (Eustace. 


simulation  of  shame.  "  I  know  I've  been  a 
fool." 

"  Well,  well,"  Mr.  Lane  said,  whirling,  as 
paternal  weathercocks  will,  to  another  point 
of  the  compass,  "never  mind,  my  boy.  Cheer 
up !  You  see  your  fault — that's  the  main 
thing.  What's  done  can't  be  undone." 

"  No,  thank  heaven  !  "  thought  the  boy, 
feeling  almost  great. 

How  delicious  is  the  irrevocable  past — 
sometimes  ! 

"  Be  more  careful  in  future.  Don't  let 
your  boyish  desire  for  follies  carry  you 
away." 

"  I  shall,"  was  his  son's  mental  rejoinder. 

"And  I  dare  say  you'll  do  good  work  in 
the  world  yet." 

The  train  ran  into  Paddington  Station  on 
this  sublime  climax  of  fatherhood,  and  the 
further  words  of  wisdom  were  jerked  out  of 
Mr.  Lane  during  their  passage  to  Carlton 
House  Terrace  in  a  four-wheeled  cab. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  person  Mr.  Eus- 
tace Lane  is !  "  said  Winifred  Ames  to  her 
particular  friend  and  happy  foil,  Jane  Fraser. 
"All  London  is  beginning  to  talk  about  him. 
I  suppose  he  must  be  clever  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  darling,  very  clever ;  oth- 


io  ®he  jToll    of 


erwise,  how  could  he  possibly  gain  so  much 
notice  ?  Just  think  —  why,  there  are  millions 
of  people  in  London,  and  I'm  sure  only  about 
a  thousand  of  them,  at  most,  attract  any  real 
attention.  I  think  Mr.  Eustace  Lane  is  a 
genius." 

"  Do  you  really,  Jenny  ?" 

"  I  do  indeed." 

Winifred  mused  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
said  : 

"  It  must  be  very  interesting  to  marry  a 
genius,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh,  enthralling,  simply.  And,  then,  so 
few  people  can  do  it." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  it  must  be  grand  to  do  what  hardly 
anybody  can  do." 

"  In  the  way  of  marrying,  Jenny?" 

"  In  any  way,"  responded  Miss  Fraser,  who 
was  an  enthusiast,  and  habitually  sentimental. 
"  What  would  I  give  to  do  even  one  unique 
thing,  or  to  marry  even  one  unique  per- 
son !  " 

"  You  couldn't  marry  two  at  the  same  time 
—  in  England." 

"England  limits  itself  so  terribly;  but 
there  is  a  broader  time  coming.  Those  who 
see  it,  and  act  upon  what  they  see,  are  pio- 
neers ;  Mr.  Lane  is  a  pioneer." 


.foils  of  (ffttstoce.  n 


"But  don't  you  think  him  rather  extrava- 
gant?" 

"  Oh  yes.  That  is  so  splendid.  I  love 
the  extravagance  of  genius,  the  barbaric  lav- 
ishness  of  moral  and  intellectual  supremacy." 

"  I  wonder  whether  the  supremacy  of 
Eustace  Lane  is  moral,  or  intellectual,  or  — 
neither  ?  "  said  Winifred.  "  There  are  so 
many  different  supremacies,  aren't  there  ?  I 
suppose  a  man  might  be  supreme  merely  as 
a  —  as  a  —  well,  an  absurdity,  you  know." 

Jenny  smiled  the  watery  smile  of  the  sen- 
timentalist; a  glass  of  still  lemonade  washed 
with  limelight  might  resemble  it. 

"  Eustace  Lane  likes  you,  Winnie,"  she  re- 
marked. 

"  I  know  ;  that  is  why  I  am  wondering 
about  him.  One  does  wonder,  you  see,  about 
the  man  one  may  possibly  be  going  to  marry." 

There  had  never  been  such  a  man  for  Jane 
Fraser,  so  she  said  nothing,  but  succeeded  in 
looking  confidential. 

Presently  Winifred  allowed  her  happy  foil 
to  lace  her  up.  She  was  going  to  a  ball  given 
by  the  Lanes  in  Carlton  House  Terrace. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  propose  to  you  to-night," 
whispered  Jane  in  a  gush  of  excitement  as 
the  two  girls  walked  down  the  stairs  to  the 
carriage.  "  If  he  does,  what  will  you  say  ?" 


12  (Ehe  foils  of 


"I  don't  know." 

"  Oh,  darling,  but  surely  -  " 

"  Eustace  is  so  odd.  I  can't  make  him 
out." 

"  That  is  because  he  is  a  genius." 

"He  is  certainly  remarkable  —  in  a  way. 
Good-night,  dear." 

The  carriage  drove  off,  and  the  happy 
foil  joined  her  maid,  who  was  waiting  to  con- 
duct her  home.  On  the  way  they  gossipped, 
and  the  maid  expressed  a  belief  that  Mr. 
Lane  was  a  fine  young  gentleman,  but  full  of 
his  goings-on. 

Jane  knew  what  she  meant.  Eustace  had 
once  kissed  her  publicly  in  Jane's  presence, 
which  deed  the  latter  considered  a  stroke  of 
genius,  and  the  act  of  a  true  and  courageous 
pioneer. 

Eustace  was  now  just  twenty-two,  and  he 
had  already  partially  succeeded  in  his  amb.i- 
tion.  His  mask  had  deceived  his  world,  and 
Mr.  Bembridge's  prophecy  about  him  was  be- 
ginning to  be  fulfilled.  He  had  done  nothing 
specially  intellectual  or  athletic,  was  not  par- 
ticularly active  either  with  limbs  or  brain  ; 
but  people  had  begun  to  notice  and  to  talk 
about  him,  to  discuss  him  with  a  certain  in- 
terest, even  with  a  certain  wonder.  The 
newspapers  occasionally  mentioned  him  as  a 


folia  °f  instate.  13 


dandy,  a  fop,  a  whimsical,  irresponsible  crea- 
ture, yet  one  whose  vagaries  were  not  entirely 
without  interest.  He  had  performed  some 
extravagant  antic  in  a  cotillon,  or  worn  some 
extraordinary  coat.  He  had  invented  a  new 
way  of  walking  one  season,  and  during  an- 
other season,  although  in  perfect  health,  he 
had  never  left  the  house,  declaring  that  move- 
ment of  any  kind  was  ungentlemanly  and 
ridiculous,  and  that  an  imitation  of  harem 
life  was  the  uttermost  bliss  obtainable  in 
London.  His  windows  in  Carlton  House 
Terrace  had  been  latticed,  and  when  his 
friends  came  there  to  see  him  they  found 
him  lying,  supported  by  cushions,  on  a 
prayer-carpet,  eating  Eastern  sweetmeats 
from  a  silver  box. 

But  he  soon  began  to  tire  of  this  deliber- 
ate imprisonment,  and  to  reduce  buffoonery 
to  a  modern  science.  His  father  was  a  rich 
man,  and  he  was  an  only  child.  Therefore 
he  was  able  to  gratify  the  supposed  whims, 
which  were  no  whims  at  all.  He  could  get 
up  surprise  parties,  which  really  bored  him, 
carry  out  elaborate  practical  jokes,  give  ex- 
traordinary entertainments  at  will.  For  his 
parents  acquiesced  in  his  absurdities,  were 
even  rather  proud  of  them,  thinking  that  he 
followed  his  Will-o'-the-wisp  of  a  fancy  be- 


14  ®he  .foils  of  Instate. 

cause  he  was  not  less,  but  more,  than  other 
young  men.  In  fact,  they  supposed  he  must 
be  a  genius  because  he  was  erratic.  Many 
people  are  of  the  same  opinion,  and  declare 
that  a  goose  standing  on  its  head  must  be  a 
swan.  By  degrees  Eustace  Lane's  practical 
jokes  became  a  common  topic  of  conversa- 
tion in  London,  and  smart  circles  were  in  a 
perpetual  state  of  mild  excitement  as  to  what 
he  would  do  next.  It  was  said  that  he  had 
put  the  latchkey  of  a  Duchess  down  the 
back  of  a  Commander-in-Chief ;  that  he  had 
once,  in  a  country  house,  prepared  an  apple- 
pie  bed  for  an  Heir-apparent,  and  that  he 
had  declared  he  would  journey  to  Rome  next 
Easter  in  order  to  present  a  collection  of 
penny  toys  to  the  Pope.  Society  loves  folly 
if  it  is  sufficiently  blatant.  The  folly  of  Eus- 
tace was  just  blatant  enough  to  be  more  than 
tolerated — enjoyed.  He  had  by  practice  ac- 
quired a  knack  of  being  silly  in  unexpected 
ways,  and  so  a  great  many  people  honestly 
considered  him  one  of  the  cleverest  young 
men  in  town. 

But,  you  know,  it  is  the  proper  thing,  if 
you  wear  a  mask,  to  have  a  sad  face  behind 
it.  Eustace  sometimes  felt  sad,  and  some- 
times fatigued.  He  had  worked  a  little  to 
make  his  reputation,  but  it  was  often  hard  la- 


.fiollg  of  (Eustace.  15 


hour  to  live  up  to  it.  His  profession  of  a 
buffoon  sometimes  exhausted  him,  but  he 
could  no  longer  dare  to  be  like  others.  The 
self-conscious  live  to  gratify  the  changing  ex- 
pectations of  their  world,  and  Eustace  had 
educated  himself  into  a  self-consciousness 
that  was  almost  a  disease. 

And,  then,  there  was  his  place  in  the  pages 
of  Vanity  Fair  to  be  won.  He  put  that  in 
front  of  him  as  his  aim  in  life,  and  became 
daily  more  and  more  whimsical. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  one  prosaic  thing. 
He  fell  in  love  with  Winifred  Ames,  and 
could  not  help  showing  it.  As  the  malady 
increased  upon  him  his  reputation  began  to 
suffer  eclipse,  for  he  relapsed  into  sentiment, 
and  even  allowed  his  eyes  to  grow  large  and 
lover-like.  He  ceased  to  worry  people,  and 
so  began  to  bore  them  —  a  much  more  danger- 
ous thing.  For  a  moment  he  even  ran  the 
fearful  risk  of  becoming  wholly  natural,  drop- 
ping his  mask,  and  showing  himself  as  he 
really  was,  a  rather  dull,  quite  normal  young 
man,  with  the  usual  notions  about  the  usual 
things,  the  usual  bias  towards  the  usual  vices, 
the  usual  disinclination  to  do  the  usual  duties 
of  life. 

He  ran  a  risk,  but  Winifred  saved  him, 
and  restored  him  to  his  fantasies  this  even- 


1 6  £he  -follri  of  Cnstiuc. 

ing  of  the  ball  in  Carlton  House  Ter- 
race. 

It  was  an  ordinary  ball,  and  therefore 
Eustace  appeared  to  receive  his  guests  in 
fancy  dress,  wearing  a  powdered  wig  and  a 
George  IV.  Court  costume.  This  absurdity 
was  a  mechanical  attempt  to  retrieve  his 
buffoon's  reputation,  for  he  was  really  very 
much  in  love,  and  very  serious  in  his  desire 
to  be  married  in  quite  the  ordinary  way. 
With  a  rather  lack-lustre  eye  he  noticed  the 
amusement  of  his  friends  at  his  last  vagary ; 
but  when  Winifred  Ames  entered  the  ball- 
room a  nervous  vivacity  shook  him,  as  it  has 
shaken  ploughmen  under  similar  conditions, 
and  for  just  a  moment  he  felt  ill  at  ease  in 
the  lonely  lunacy  of  his  flowered  waistcoat 
and  olive-green  knee-breeches.  He  danced 
with  her,  then  took  her  to  a  scarlet  nook,  ap- 
parently devised  to  hold  only  one  person,  but 
into  which  they  gently  squeezed,  not  without 
difficulty. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  her  big  brown  eyes, 
that  were  at  the  same  time  honest  and  fanci- 
ful. Then  she  said : 

"You  have  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of 
us  all  to-night,  Mr.  Lane." 

"Havel?    How?" 

"By     retreating    into     the     picturesque 


,f01is  of  (instate.  17 


clothes  of  another  age.  All  the  men  here 
must  hate  you." 

"  No  ;  they  only  laugh  at  me." 

She  was  silent  a  moment.     Then  she  said  : 

"What  is  it  in  you  that  makes  you  enjoy 
that  which  the  rest  of  us  are  afraid  of?" 

"  And  that  is  -  " 

"Being  laughed  at.  Laughter,  you  know, 
is  the  great  world's  cat-o'-nine-tails.  We  fear 
it  as  little  boys  fear  the  birch  on  a  winter's 
morning  at  school." 

Eustace  smiled  uneasily. 

"  Do  you  laugh  at  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have.     You  surely  don't  mind." 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  an  effort.  Then  : 
"Are  you  laughing  to-night?" 

"  No.  You  have  done  an  absurd  thing, 
of  course,  but  it  happens  to  be  becoming. 
You  look  —  well,  pretty  —  yes,  that's  the  word 
—  in  your  wig.  Many  men  are  ugly  in  their 
own  hair.  And,  after  all,  what  would  life  be 
without  its  absurdities  ?  Probably  you  are 
right  to  enjoy  being  laughed  at." 

Eustace,  who  had  seriously  meditated  put- 
ting off  his  mask  forever  that  night,  began  to 
change  his  mind.  The  sentence,  "  Many  men 
are  ugly  in  their  own  hair,"  dwelt  with  him, 
and  he  felt  fortified  in  his  powdered  wig. 
What  if  he  took  it  off,  and  henceforth  Wini- 


1  8  ®l)e  .foils 


fred  found  him  ugly  ?  Does  not  the  safety 
of  many  of  us  lie  merely  in  dressing  up  ?  Do 
we  not  buy  our  fate  at  the  costumier's? 

"Just  tell  me  one  thing,"  Winifred  went 
on.  "Are  you  natural  ?"  ^ 

"  Natural  ?  "  he  hesitated. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  you  must  be.  You've  got 
a  whimsical  nature." 

"I  suppose  so."  He  thought  of  his  jour- 
ney with  his  father  years  ago,  and  added  :  "  I 
wish  I  hadn't." 

"  Why  ?  There  is  a  charm  in  the  fantas- 
tic, although  comparatively  few  people  see  it. 
Life  must  be  a  sort  of  Arabian  Nights  Enter- 
tainment to  you." 

"  Sometimes.  To-night  it  is  different.  It 
seems  a  sort  of  Longfellow  life." 

"What's  that  ?" 

"  Real  and  earnest." 

And  then  he  proposed  to  her,  with  a  laugh, 
to  shoot  an  arrow  at  the  dead  poet  and  his 
own  secret  psalm. 

And  Winifred  accepted  him,  partly  be- 
cause she  thought  him  really  strange,  partly 
because  he  seemed  so  pretty  in  his  wig,  which 
she  chose  to  believe  his  own  hair. 

They  were  married,  and  on  the  wedding- 
day  the  bridegroom  astonished  his  guests  by 
making  a  burlesque  speech  at  the  reception. 


-foils  °f  Estate.  19 


In  anyone  else  such  an  exhibition  would  have 
been  considered  the  worst  taste,  but  nobody 
was  disgusted,  and  many  were  delighted. 
They  had  begun  to  fear  that  Eustace  was 
getting  humdrum.  This  harlequinade  after 
the  pantomime  at  the  church  —  for  what  is  a 
modern  smart  wedding  but  a  second-rate 
pantomime  ?  —  put  them  into  a  good  humour, 
and  made  them  feel  that,  after  all,  they  had 
got  something  for  their  presents.  -And  so 
the  happy  pair  passed  through  a  dreary  rain 
of  rice  to  the  mysteries  of  that  Bluebeard's 
Chamber,  the  honeymoon. 

,       II. 

WINIFRED  anticipated  this  honeymoon 
with  calmness,  but  Eustace  was  too  much  in 
love  to  be  calm.  He  was,  on  the  contrary, 
in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  and  of  emo- 
tion, and  the  effort  of  making  his  ridiculous 
speech  had  nearly  sent  him  into  hysterics. 
But  he  had  now  fully  resolved  to  continue  in 
his  whimsical  course,  and  to  play  for  ever 
the  part  of  a  highly  erratic  genius,  driven 
hither  and  thither  by  the  weird  impulses  of 
the  moment.  That  he  never  had  any  im- 
pulses but  such  as  were  common  to  most 
ordinary  young  men  was  a  sad  fact  which  he 
meant  to  most  carefully  conceal  from  Wini- 


20  (Jhe  fiollg  of  (Einstace. 

fred.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  she 
believed  his  mask  to  be  his  face.  She  had, 
therefore,  married  the  mask.  To  divorce  her 
violently  from  it  might  be  fatal  to  their  hap- 
piness. If  he  showed  the  countenance  God 
had  given  him,  she  might  cry  :  "  I  don't  know 
you.  You  are  a  stranger.  You  are  like  all 
the  other  men  I  didn't  choose  to  marry." 
His  blood  ran  cold  at  the  thought.  No,  he 
must  keep  it  up.  She  loved  his  fantasies  be- 
cause she  believed  them  natural  to  him.  She 
must  never  suspect  that  they  were  not  nat- 
ural. So,  as  they  travelled,  he  planned  the 
campaign  of  married  life,  as  doubtless  others, 
strange  in  their  new  bondage,  have  planned. 
He  gazed  at  Winifred,  and  thought,  "What 
is  her  notion  of  the  ideal  husband,  I  won- 
der?" She  gazed  at  him,  and  mused  on  his 
affection  and  his  whimsicality,  and  what  the 
two  would  lead  to  in  connection  with  her 
fate.  And  the  old,  scarlet-faced  guard  smiled 
fatuously  at  them  both  through  the  window 
on  which  glared  a  prominent  "  Engaged  "  as 
he  had  smiled  dn  many  another  pair  of  fools 
— so  he  silently  dubbed  them.  Then  they 
entered  Bluebeard's  Chamber  and  closed  the 
door  behind  them. 

Brighton    was     their    destination.    They 
meant  to  lose  themselves  in  a  marine  crowd. 


®nstace.  21 


They  stayed  there  for  a  fortnight,  and 
then  returned  to  town,  Eustace  more  in  love 
than  ever. 

But  Winifred  ? 

One  afternoon  she  sat  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  pretty  little  house  they  had  taken 
in  Deanery  Street,  Park  Lane.  She  was  think- 
ing, very  definitely.  The  silent  processes  of 
even  an  ordinary  woman's  mind  —  what  great 
male  writer  would  not  give  two  years  of  his 
life  to  sit  with  them  and  watch  them,  as  the 
poet  watches  the  flight  of  a  swallow,  or  the 
astronomer  the  processions  of  the  sky  ?  A 
curious  gale  was  raging  through  the  town, 
touzling  its  thatch  of  chimney-pots,  doing 
violence  to  the  demureness  of  its  respectable 
streets.  Night  was  falling,  and  in  Piccadilly 
those  strange,  gay  hats  that  greet  the  dark- 
ness were  coming  out  like  eager,  vulgar 
comets  in  a  dim  and  muttering  firmament. 
It  was  just  the  moment  when  the  outside 
mood  of  the  huge  city  begins  to  undergo  a 
change,  to  glide  from  its  comparative  sim- 
plicity of  afternoon  into  its  leering  com- 
plexity of  evening.  Each  twenty-four  hours 
London  has  its  moment  of  emancipation,  its 
moment  in  which  the  wicked  begin  to  breathe 
and  the  good  to  wonder,  when  "How?"  and 
"  Why  ?  "  are  on  the  lips  of  the  opposing  fac- 


22  (Elje  -foils  of  (Eustace. 

tions,  and  only  the  philosophers  who  know — 
or  think  they  know — their  human  nature  hold 
themselves  still,  and  feel  that  man  is  at  the 
least  ceaselessly  interesting. 

Winifred  sat  by  the  fire  and  held  a  council. 
She  called  her  thoughts  together  and  gave 
audience  to  her  suspicions,  and  her  brown 
eyes  were  wide  and  rather  mournful  as  her 
counsellors  uttered  each  a  word  of  hope  or 
of  warning. 

Eustace  was  out.  He  had  gone  to  a  con- 
cert, and  had  not  returned. 

She  was  holding  a  council  to  decide  some- 
thing in  reference  to  him. 

The  honeymoon  weeks  had  brought  her 
just  as  far  as  the  question,  "  Do  I  know 
my  husband  at  all,  or  is  he,  so  far,  a  total 
stranger?" 

Some  people  seem  to  draw  near  to  you  as 
you  look  at  them  steadily,  others  to  recede 
until  they  reach  the  verge  of  invisibility. 
Which  was  Eustace  doing  ?  Did  his  outline 
become  clearer  or  more  blurred  ?  Was  he 
daily  more  definite  or  more  phantasmal  ? 
And  the  members  of  her  council  drew  near 
and  whispered  their  opinions  in  Winifred's 
attentive  ears.  They  were  not  all  in  accord 
at  the  first.  Pros  fought  with  cons,  elbowed 
them,  were  hustled  in  return.  Sometimes 


iTollg  of  (Ettstare.  23 


there  was  almost  a  row,  and  she  had  to 
stretch  forth  her  hands  and  hush  the  tumult. 
For  she  desired  a  calm  conclave,  although 
she  was  a  woman. 

And  the  final  decision  —  if,  indeed,  it  could 
be  arrived  at  that  evening  —  was  important. 
Love  seemed  to  hang  upon  it,  and  all  the 
sweets  of  life  ;  and  the  little  wings  of  Love 
fluttered  anxiously,  as  the  little  wings  of  a 
bird  flutter  when  you  hold  it  in  the  cage  of 
your  hands,  prisoning  it  from  its  wayward 
career  through  the  blue  shadows  of  the 
summer. 

For  love  is  not  always  and  for  ever  in- 
stinctive —  not  even  the  finest  love.  While 
many  women  love  because  they  must,  whether 
the  thing  to  be  loved  or  not  loved  be  carrion 
or  crystal,  a  child  of  the  gods  or  an  imp  of 
the  devil,  others  love  decisively  because  they 
see  —  perhaps  can  even  analyze  —  a  beauty  that 
is  there  in  the  thing  before  them.  One  w,oman 
loves  a  man  simply  because  he  kisses  her. 
Another  loves  him  because  he  has  won  the 
Victoria  Cross. 

Winifred  was  not  of  the  women  who  love 
because  they  are  kissed. 

She  had  accepted  Eustace  rather  impul- 
sively, but  she  had  not  married  him  quite  un- 
critically. There  was  something  new,  differ- 


24  ®he  .folia  °f  Eustace. 

ent  from  other  men,  about  him  which  at- 
tracted her,  as  well  as  his  good  looks — that 
prettiness  which  had  peeped  out  from  the 
white  wig  in  the  scarlet  nook  at  the  ball. 
His  oddities  at  that  time  she  had  grown 
thoroughly  to  believe  in,  and,  believing  in 
them,  she  felt  she  liked  them.  She  supposed 
them  to  spring,  rather  like  amazing  spotted 
orchids,  from  the  earth  of  a  quaint  nature. 
Now,  after  a  honeymoon  spent  among  the 
orchids,  she  held  this  council  while  the  wind 
blew  London  into  a  mood  of  evening  irri- 
tation. 

What  was  Eustace  ? 

How  the  wind  sang  over  Park  Lane!  Yet 
the  stars  were  coming  out. 

What  was  he  ?  A  genius  or  a  clown  ?  A 
creature  to  spread  a  buttered  slide  or  a  man 
to  climb  to  heaven  ?  A  fine,  free  child  of 
Nature,  who  did,  freshly,  what  he  would,  re- 
gardless  of  the  strained  discretion  of  others, 
or  a  futile,  scheming  hypocrite,  screaming 
after  forced  puerilities,  without  even  a  finger 
on  the  skirts  of  originality  ? 

It  was  a  problem  for  lonely  woman's  de- 
bate. Winifred  strove  to  weigh  it  well.  In 
Bluebeard's  Chamber  Eustace  had  cut  many 
capers.  This  activity  she  had  expected — had 
even  wished  for.  And  at  first  she  had  been 


of  C£tt0tace.  25 


amused  and  entertained  by  the  antics,  as  one 
assisting  at  a  good  burlesque,  through  which, 
moreover,  a  piquant  love  theme  runs.  But 
by  degrees  she  began  to  feel  a  certain  stiff- 
ness in  the  capers,  a  self-consciousness  in  the 
antics,  or  fancied  she  began  to  feel  it,  and 
instead  of  being  always  amused  she  became 
often  thoughtful. 

Whimsicality  she  loved.  Buffoonery  she 
possibly,  even  probably,  could  learn  to  hate. 

Of  Eustace's  love  for  her  she  had  no 
doubt.  She  was  certain  of  his  affection.  But 
was  it  worth  having  ?  That  depended,  surely, 
on  the  nature  of  the  man  in  whom  it  sprang, 
from  whom  it  flowed.  She  wanted  to  be  sure 
of  that  nature  ;  but  she  acknowledged  to  her- 
self, as  she  sat  by  the  fire,  that  she  was  per- 
plexed. Perhaps  even  that  perplexity  was 
merciful.  Yet  she  wished  to  sweep  it  away. 
She  knit  her  brows  moodily,  and  longed  for  a 
secret  divining-rod  that  would  twist  to  reveal 
truth  in  another.  For  truth,  she  thought,  is 
better  than  hidden  water-springs,  and  a  sin- 
cerity —  even  of  stupidity  —  more  lovely  than 
the  fountain  that  gives  flowers  to  the  desert, 
wild  red  roses  to  the  weary  gold  of  sands. 

The  wind  roared  again,  howling  to  poor, 
shuddering  Mayfair,  and  there  came  a  step 
outside.  Eustace  sprang  in  upon  Winifred's 


26  £|]e  folio  of  (Eustace. 

council,  looking  like  a  gay  schoolboy,  his 
cheeks  flushed,  his  lips  open  to  speak. 

"  Dreaming  ? "  he  said. 

She  smiled. 

"  Perhaps." 

"  That  concert  paralyzed  me.  Too  much 
Beethoven.  I  wanted  Wagner.  Beethoven 
insists  on  exalting  you,  but  Wagner  lets  you 
revel  and  feel  naughty.  Winnie,  d'you  hear 
the  wind  ? " 

"  Could  I  help  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Does  it  suggest  something  to  you  ?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  made  his  expression 
mischievous,  or  meant  to  make  it.  She  looked 
up  at  him,  too. 

"Yes,  many  things,"  she  said — "many, 
many  things." 

"  To  me  it  suggests  kites." 

"  Kites  ? " 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  fly  one  now  in  the 
Park.  The  stars  are  out.  Put  on  your  hat 
and  come  with  me." 

He  seemed  all  impulse,  sparkling  to  the 
novelty  of  the  idea. 

"  Well,  but "     She  hesitated. 

"I've  got  one — a  beauty,  a  monster!  I 
noticed  the  wind  was  getting  up  yesterday. 
Come ! " 

He  pulled  at  her  hand ;  she  obeyed  him, 


JTollg  of  Eustace.  27 


not  quickly.  She  put  on  her  hat,  a  plain 
straw,  a  thick  jacket,  gloves.  Kite-flying 
in  London  seemed  an  odd  notion.  Was  it 
lively  and  entertaining,  or  merely  silly  ? 
Which  ought  it  to  be  ? 

Eustace  shouted  to  her  from  the  tiny  hall. 

"  Hurry  !  "  he  cried. 

The  wind  yelled  beyond  the  door,  and 
Winifred  ran  down,  beginning  to  feel  a  child- 
ish thrill  of  excitement.  Eustace  held  the 
kite.  It  was,  indeed,  a  white  monster,  gaily 
decorated  with  fluttering  scarlet  and  blue 
ribbons. 

"We  shall  be  mobbed,"  she  said. 

"  There's  no  one  about,"  he  answered. 
"  The  gale  frightens  people." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  they  were  out 
in  the  crying  tempest.  The  great  clouds  flew 
along  the  sky  like  an  army  in  retreat.  Some, 
to  Winifred,  seemed  soldiers,  others  baggage- 
waggons,  horses,  gun-carriages,  rushing  pell- 
mell  for  safety.  One  drooping,  tattered 
cloud  she  deemed  the  colours  of  a  regiment 
streaming  under  the  stars  that  peeped  out 
here  and  there  —  watching  sentinel  eyes,  ob- 
durate, till  some  magic  password  softened 
them. 

As  they  crossed  the  road  she  spoke  of  her 
cloud  army  to  Eustace. 
3 


28 


"This  kite's  like  a  live  thing,"  was  his 
reply.  "  It  tugs  as  a  fish  tugs  a  line." 

He  did  not  care  for  the  tumult  of  a  far- 
off  world. 

They  entered  the  Park.  It  seemed,  in- 
deed, strangely  deserted.  A  swaggering  sol- 
dier passed  them  by,  going  towards  the  Mar- 
ble Arch.  His  spurs  clinked  ;  his  long  cloak 
gleamed  like  a  huge  pink  carnation  in  the 
dingy  dimness  of  the  startled  night.  How 
he  stared  with  his  unintelligent,  though  bold, 
eyes  as  he  saw  the  kite  bounding  to  be  free. 

Eustace  seemed  delighted. 

"  That  man  thinks  us  mad  !  "  he  said. 

"  Are  we  mad  ?  "  Winifred  asked,  surprised 
at  her  own  strange  enjoyment  of  the  ad- 
venture. 

"Who  knows?"  said  Eustace,  looking  at 
her  narrowly.  "  You  like  this  escapade  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  My  mask  !  "  he  thought,  secretly  long- 
ing to  be  quietly  by  the  fire  sipping  tea  and 
reading  Punch.  "  She  loves  that." 

They  were  through  the  trees  now,  across 
the  broad  path,  out  on  the  open  lawns. 

"  Now  for  it  !  "  he  shouted,  as  the  wind 
roared  in  their  faces. 

He  paid  out  the  coils  of  the  thin  cord. 
The  white  monster  skimmed,  struggled  near 


.foils  ^  instate.  29 


the  ground,  returned,  darted  again  upward 
and  outward,  felt  for  the  wind's  hands,  caught 
them  and  sprang,  with  a  mad  courage,  star- 
wards,  its  gay  ribbons  flying  like  coloured 
birds  to  mark  its  course.  But  soon  they  were 
lost  to  sight,  and  only  a  diminished,  ghost-like 
shadow  leaping  against  the  black  showed 
where  the  kite  beat  on  to  liberty. 

Eustace  ran  with  the  wind,  and  Winifred 
followed  him.  The  motion  sent  an  exulta- 
tion dancing  through  her  veins,  and  stirred 
her  blood  into  a  ferment.  The  noises  in  the 
trees,  the  galloping  music  of  the  airs  on  their 
headlong  courses,  rang  in  her  ears  like  clash- 
ing bells.  She  called  as  she  ran,  but  never 
knew  what  words.  She  leaped,  as  if  over 
glorious  obstacles.  Her  feet  danced  on  the 
short  grass.  She  had  a  sudden  notion  :  "  I 
am  living  now  !  "  and  Eustace  had  never 
seemed  so  near  to  her.  He  had  an  art  to  find 
why  children  are  happy,  she  thought,  because 
they  do  little  strange  things,  coupling  me- 
chanical movements,  obvious  actions  that 
may  seem  absurd,  with  soft  flights  of  the 
imagination,  that  wrap  their  prancings  and 
their  leaps  in  golden  robes,  and  give  to  the 
dull  world  a  glory.  The  hoop  is  their  demon 
enemy,  whom  they  drive  before  them  to  de- 
struction. The  kite  is  a  great  white  bird, 


30  ®he  jToilg  of  (Eustace. 

whom  they  hold  back  for  a  time  from  heaven. 
Suddenly  Winifred  longed  to  feel  the  bird's 
efforts  to  be  free. 

11  Let  me  have  it !  "  she  cried  to  Eustace, 
holding  out  her  hands  eagerly.  "  Do  let  me  !  " 

He  was  glad  to  pass  the  cord  to  her,  being 
utterly  tired  of  a  prank  which  he  thought 
idiotic,  and  he  could  not  understand  the  light 
that  sprang  into  her  eyes  as  she  grasped  it, 
and  felt  the  life  of  the  lifeless  thing  that 
soared  towards  the  clouds. 

For  the  moment  it  was  more  to  her — this 
tugging,  scarce  visible,  white  thing — than  all 
the  world  of  souls.  It  gave  to  her  the  excite- 
ment of  battle,  the  joy  of  strife.  She  felt 
herself  a  Napoleon  with  empires  in  her  hand  ; 
a  Diana  holding  eternities,  instead  of  hounds, 
in  leash.  She  had  quite  the  children's  idea 
of  kites,  the  sense  of  being  in  touch  with  the 
infinite  that  enters  into  baby  pleasures,  and 
makes  the  remembrance  of  them  live  in  us 
when  we  are  old,  and  have  forgotten  wild 
passions,  strange  fruitions,  that  have  followed 
them  and  faded  away  for  ever. 

How  the  creature  tore  at  her !  She  fan- 
cied she  felt  the  pulsings  of  its  fly-away  heart, 
beating  with  energy  and  great  hopes  of  free- 
dom. And  suddenly,  with  a  call,  she  opened 
her  hands.  Her  captive  was  lost  in  the  night. 


.foils  of  (Eustace.  31 


In  a  moment  she  felt  sad,  such  a  foolish 
sorrow,  as  a  gaoler  may  feel  sad  who  has 
grown  to  love  his  prisoner,  and  sees  him 
smile  when  the  gaping  door  gives  him  again 
to  crime. 

"  It's  gone,"  she  said  to  Eustace  ;  "  I 
think  it's  glad  to  go." 

"  Glad  —  a  kite  !  "  he  said. 

And  it  struck  her  that  he  would  have 
thought  it  equally  sensible  if  she  had  spoken, 
like  Hans  Andersen,  of  the  tragedies  of  a 
toy-shop  or  the  Homeric  passions  of  wooden 
dolls. 

Then,  why  had  he  been  prompted  by  the 
wind  to  play  the  boy  if  he  had  none  of  the 
boy's  ardent  imagination  ? 

They  reached  Deanery  Street,  and  passed 
in  from  the  night  and  the  elements.  Eustace 
shut  the  door  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Wini- 
fred's echoing  sigh  was  of  regret. 

It  seemed  a  listless  world  —  the  world  in- 
side a  lighted  London  house,  dominated  by 
a  pale  butler  with  black  side-whiskers  and 
endless  discretion.  But  Eustace  did  not  feel 
it  so.  Winifred  knew  that  beyond  hope  of 
doubt  as  she  stole  a  glance  at  his  face.  He 
had  put  off  the  child  —  the  buffoon  —  and 
looked  for  the  moment  a  grave,  dull  young 
man,  naturally  at  ease  with  all  the  conven- 


32  ®he  fo[l%  of  (Enetoc*. 

tions.  She  could  not  help  saying  to  herself, 
as  she  went  to  her  room  to  live  with  hairpins 
and  her  lady's-maid :  "  I  believe  he  hated  it 
all !  " 

From  that  night  of  kite-flying  Winifred 
felt  differently  towards  her  husband.  She 
was  of  the  comparatively  rare  women  who 
hate  pretence  even  in  another  woman,  but 
especially  in  a  man.  The  really  eccentric 
she  was  not  afraid  of — could  even  love,  be- 
ing a  searcher  after  the  new  and  strange,  like 
so  many  modern  pilgrims.  But  pinchbeck  ec- 
centricity— Brummagem  originalities — gave 
to  her  views  of  the  poverty  of  poor  human 
nature  leading  her  to  a  depression  not  un- 
tinged  with  contempt. 

And  the  fantasies  of  Eustace  became 
more  violent  and  more  continuous  as  he 
began  to  note  the  lassitude  which  gradually 
crept  into  her  intercourse  with  him.  London 
rang  with  them.  At  one  time  he  pretended 
to  a  strange  passion  for  death  ;  prayed  to  a 
skull  which  grinned  in  a  shrine  raised  for  it 
in  his  dressing-room  ;  lay  down  each  day  in 
a  coffin,  and  asked  Winifred  to  close  it  and 
scatter  earth  upon  the  lid,  that  he  might 
realize  the  end  towards  which  we  journey. 
He  talked  of  silence,  long  and  loudly — an 
irony  which  Winifred  duly  noted — sneered  at 


®l)e  .folia  0*  d«8to«.  33 

the  fleeting  phantoms  in  the  show  of  exist- 
ence, called  the  sobbing  of  women,  the 
laughter  of  men,  sounds  as  arid  as  the  whizz 
of  a  cracker  let  off  by  a  child  on  the  fifth  of 
November. 

"  We  should  kill  our  feelings,"  he  said. 
"They  make  us  absurd.  Life  should  be  a 
breathing  calm,  as  death  is  a  breathless 
calm." 

The  calm  descending  upon  Winifred  was 
of  the  benumbing  order. 

Later  he  recoiled  from  this  coquetting 
with  the  destroyer. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "which  of  us  does 
not  feel  himself  eternal,  exempt  from  the 
penalty  of'the  race  ?  You  don't  believe  that 
you  will  ever  die,  Winifred?" 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  but  you  don't  believe  it." 

"You  think  knowledge  less  real  than 
belief  ?  Perhaps  it  is.  But  I,  at  least,  hope 
that  some  day  I  shall  die.  To  live  on  here 
for  ever  would  be  like  staying  eternally  at  a 
party.  After  all,  when  one  has  danced,  and 
supped,  and  flirted,  and  wondered  at  the 
gowns,  and  praised  the  flowers,  and  touched 
the  hand  of  one's  hostess,  and  swung  round 
in  a  final  gallop,  and  said  how  much  one  has 
enjoyed  it  all — one  wants  to  go  home." 


34  ®l)e  .folljj  of  (Eustace. 

"  Does  one  ?  "  Eustace  said.  "  Home  you 
call  it ! " 

He  shuddered. 

"  I  call  it  what  I  want  it  to  be,  what  I 
think  it  may  be,  what  the  poor  and  the  weary 
and  the  fallen  make  it  in  their  lonely  thoughts. 
Let  us,  at  least,  hope  that  we  travel  towards 
the  east,  where  the  sun  is." 

"  You  have  strange  fancies,"  he  said. 

"  I !     Not  so  strange  as  yours." 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  eyes  as  she 
spoke.  He  wondered  what  that  look  meant. 
It  seemed-  to  him  a  menace. 

"  I  must  keep  it  up — I  must  keep  it  up," 
he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  left  the  room. 
"  Winifred  loves  fancies — loves  me  for  what 
she  thinks  mine." 

He  went  to  his  library,  and  sat  down 
heavily,  to  devise  fresh  outrages  on  the  ordi- 
nary. 

His  pranks  became  innumerable,  and  So- 
ciety called  him  the  most  original  figure  of 
London.  The  papers  quoted  him — his  doings, 
not  his  sayings.  People  pointed  him  out  in 
the  Park.  His  celebrity  waxed.  Even  the 
Marble  Arch  seemed  turning  to  gaze  after 
him  as  he  went  by,  showing  the  observation 
which  the  imaginative  think  into  inanimate 
things. 


®he  foils  °f  ®tistace.  35 

At  least,  so  a  wag  declared. 

And  Winifred  bore  it,  but  with  an  increas- 
ing impatience. 

At  this  time,  too,  a  strange  need  of  pro- 
tection crept  over  her,  the  yearning  for  man's 
beautiful,  dog-like  sympathy  that  watches 
woman  in  her  grand  dark  hour  before  .she 
blooms  into  motherhood.  When  she  knew 
the  truth,  she  resolved  to  tell  Eustace,  and 
she  came  into  his  room  softly,  with  shining 
eyes.  He  was  sitting  reading  the  Financial 
News  in  a  nimbus  of  cigarette  smoke,  se- 
cretly glorying  in  his  momentary  immunity 
from  the  prison  rules  of  the  fantastic.  Wini- 
fred's entry  was  as  that  of  a  warder.  He 
sprang  up  laughing. 

"  Winnie,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  am  going 
to  South  Africa." 

"  You  !  "  she  said  in  surprise. 

"  Yes  ;  to  give  acrobatic  performances  in 
the  street,  and  so  pave  the  way  to  a  position 
as  a  millionaire.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  man 
rising  from  a  respectable  competence  to  a 
fortune  ?  According  to  the  papers,  you  must 
start  with  nothing ;  that  is  the  first  rule  of 
the  game.  We  have  ten  thousand  a  year,  so 
we  can  never  hope  to  be  rich.  Fortune  only 
favours  the  pauper.  I  am  mad  about  money 
to-day.  I  can  think  of  nothing  else." 


36  fthe  .foils 


And  he  began  showing  her  conjuring 
tricks  with  sovereigns  which  he  drew  from 
his  pockets. 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  day.  And  when 
she  told  him,  it  was  without  apparent  emo- 
tion. She  seemed  merely  stating  coldly  a 
physical  fact,  not  breathing  out  a  beautiful 
secret  of  her  soul  and  his,  a  consecrated 
wonder  to  shake  them  both,  and  bind  them 
together  as  two  flowers  are  bound  in  the 
centre  of  a  bouquet,  the  envy  of  the  other 
flowers. 

"  Eustace,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  were 
clear  and  her  hands  were  still,  "  I  think  I 
ought  to  tell  you  —  we  shall  have  a  child." 

Her  voice  was  unwavering  as  a  doctor's 
which  pronounces,  "You  have  the  influenza." 
She  stood  there  before  him. 

"Winifred!"  he  cried,  looking  up.  His 
impulse  was  to  say,  "  Wife  !  My  Winifred  !  " 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  as  any  clerk  might 
take  his  little  middle-class  spouse,  to  kiss  her 
lips,  and,  in  doing  it,  fancy  he  drew  near  to  the 
prison  in  which  every  soul  eternally  dwells 
on  earth.  Finely  human  he  felt,  as  the  dull- 
est, the  most  unknown,  the  plainest,  the  most 
despised,  may  feel,  thank  God  !  "  Wini- 
fred !  "  he  cried.  And  then  he  stopped,  with 
the  shooting  thought,  "  Even  now  I  must  be 


of  (Instate.  37 


what  she  thinks  me,  what  she  perhaps  loves 
me  for." 

She  stood  there  silently  waiting. 

"  Toys!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Toys  have  al- 
ways been  my  besetting  sin.  Now  I  will 
make  a  grand  collection,  not  for  the  Pope,  as 
people  pretend,  but  for  our  family.  You 
will  have  two  children  to  laugh  at,  Winnie. 
Your  husband  is  one,  you  know."  He  sprang 
up.  "  I'll  go  into  the  Strand,"  he  said. 
"  There's  a  man  near  the  Temple  who  has 
always  got  some  delightful  novelty  display- 
ing its  paces  on  the  pavement.  What  fun  !  " 

And  off  he  went,  leaving  Winifred  alone 
with  the  mystery  of  her  woman's  world,  the 
mystic  mystery  of  birth  that  may  dawn  out 
of  hate  as  out  of  love,  out  of  drunken  dissi- 
pation as  out  of  purity's  sweet  climax. 

Next  day  a  paragraph  in  the  papers  told 
how  Mr.  Eustace  Lane  had  bought  up  all  the 
penny  toys  of  the  Strand.  Mention  was  again 
made  of  his  supposed  mission  to  the  Vatican, 
and  a  picture  drawn  of  the  bewilderment  of 
the  Holy  Father,  roused  from  contemplation 
of  the  eternal  to  contemplation  of  jumping 
pasteboard,  and  the  frigid  gestures  of  people 
from  the  world  of  papier-macht. 

Eustace  showed  the  paragraph  to  Wini- 
fred. 


38  ®l)c  jToIln  of  instate. 

"Why  will  they  chronicle  all  I  do?"  he 
said,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Would  you  rather  they  did  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  it  amuses  them,"  he  answered. 
"To  amuse  the  world  is  to  be  its  bene- 
factor." 

"  No,  to  comfort  the  world,"  was  Wini- 
fred's silent  thought. 

To  her  the  world  often  seemed  a  weary 
invalid,  playing  cards  on  the  coverlet  of  the 
bed  from  which  it  longed  in  vain  to  move, 
peeping  with  heavy  eyes  at  the  shrouded 
windows  of  its  chamber,  and  listening  for 
faint  sounds  from  without — soft  songs,  soft 
murmurings,  the  breath  of  winds,  the  sigh 
of  showers;  then  turning  with  a  smothered 
groan  to  its  cards  again,  its  lengthy  game  of 
"  Patience."  Clubs,  spades,  hearts,  diamonds 
—there  they  all  lay  on  the  coverlet  ready  to 
the  hands  of  the  invalid.  But  she  wanted  to 
take  them  away,  and  give  to  the  sufferer  a 
prayer  and  a  hope. 

At  this  period  she  was  often  full  of  a 
vague,  chaotic  tenderness,  far-reaching,  yet 
indefinite.  She  could  rather  have  kissed  the 
race  than  a  person. 

And  so  the  days  went  by,  Winifred  in  a 
dream  of  wonder,  Eustace  in  the  toy-shops. 

Until  the  birthday  dawned  and  faded. 


4F0IJa  of  (Ettstac*.  39 


All  through  that  day  Eustace  was  in 
agony.  He  did  not  care  so  much  for  the 
child,  but  he  loved  the  mother.  Her  danger 
tore  at  his  heart.  Her  pain  smote  him,  till 
he  seemed  to  feel  it  actually  and  physically. 
That  she  was  giving  him  something  was 
naught  to  him  ;  that  she  might  be  taken  away 
in  the  giving  was  everything.  And  when  he 
learnt  that  all  was  well,  he  cried  and  prayed, 
and  thought  to  himself  afterwards,  "  If  Wini- 
fred could  know  what  I  am  like,  what  I  have 
done  to-day,  how  would  it  strike  her  ?  " 

She  did  not  know;  for  when  at  length 
Eustace  was  admitted  to  her  room,  he  trained 
himself  to  murmur,  "  A  girl,  that's  lucky  be- 
cause of  all  the  dolls.  The  Pope  sha'n'thave 
even  one  now." 

Winifred  lay  back  white  on  her  pillow, 
and  a  little  frown  travelled  across  her  face. 
If  Eustace  had  just  kissed  her,  and  she  had 
felt  a  tear  of  his  on  her  face,  and  he  had  said 
nothing,  she  could  have  loved  him  then  as  a 
father,  perhaps,  more  than  as  a  husband. 
His  allusion  to  the  supposed  Papal  absurdity 
disgusted  her  at  such  a  time,  only  faintly, 
because  of  her  weakness,  but  distinctly,  and 
in  a  way  to  be  remembered. 

She  recovered  ;  but  just  as  the  child  was 
beginning  to  smile,  and  to  express  an  appro- 


40  ®l)e  Jfolljj  of  ©tistace. 

batioh  of  life  by  murmurous  gurglings,  an 
infantile  disease  gripped  it,  held  it,  would  not 
release  it.  And  Winifred  knelt  beside  it, 
dead,  and  thought,  with  a  new  and  vital  hor- 
ror, of  the  invalid  world  playing  cards  upon 
the  drawn  coverlet  of  its  bed.  Baby  was 
outside  that  chamber  now,  beyond  the  cur- 
tained windows,  outside  in  sun  or  shower  that 
she  could  not  see,  could  only  dream  of,  while 
the  game  of  "  Patience  "  went  on  and  on. 

III. 

THE  death  of  the  child  meant  more  to 
Winifred  than  she  would  at  first  acknowledge 
even  to  herself.  Almost  unconsciously  she 
had  looked  forward  to  its  birth  as  to  a  release 
from  bondage.  There  are  moments  when  a 
duet  is  gaol,  a  trio  comparative  liberty.  The 
child,  the  tiny  intruder  into  youthful  married 
life,  may  come  in  the  guise  of  an  imp  or  of  a 
good  fairy  :  one  to  cloud  the  perfect  and  com- 
plete joy  of  two,  or  one  to  give  sunlight  to 
their  nascent  weariness  and  dissatisfaction. 
Or,  again,  it  may  be  looked  for  with  longing 
by  one  of  two  lovers,  with  apprehension  by 
the  other.  Only  when  it  lay  dead  did  Wini- 
fred understand  that  Eustace  was  to  her  a 
stranger,  and  that  she  was  lonely  alone  with 
him.  The  "  Au  revoir  "  of  two  bodies  may 


of  (Eustace.  41 


be  sweet,  but  the  "  Au  revoir  "  of  two  minds 
is  generally  but  a  hypocritical  or  sarcastic 
rendering  of  the  tragic  word  "  Adieu."  Wini- 
fred's mind  cried  "  Au  revoir  "  to  the  mind  of 
Eustace,  to  his  nature,  to  his  love,  but  deep  in 
her  soul  trembled  the  minor  music,  the  shud- 
dering discord,  of  "  Adieu."  Adieu  to  the  body 
of  child  ;  adieu  more  complete,  more  eternal, 
to  the  soul  of  husband.  Which  good  bye  was 
the  stranger  ?  She  stood  as  at  cross-roads, 
and  watched,  with  hand-shaded  eyes,  the  tiny, 
waywa'rd  babe  dwindling  on  its  journey  to 
heaven  ;  the  man  she  had  married  dwindling 
on  his  journey  —  whither  ?  And  the  one  she 
had  a  full  hope  of  meeting  again,  but  the 
other  - 

After  the  funeral  the  Lanes  took  up  once 
more  the  old  dual  life  which  had  been  mo- 
mentarily interrupted.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  interruption,  Winifred  fancied  that  she 
might  not  have  awakened  to  the  full  knowl- 
edge of  her  own  feelings  towards  Eustace 
until  a  much  later  period.  But  the  baby's 
birth,  existence,  passing  away,  were  a  blow 
upon  the  gate  of  life  from  the  vague  without. 
She  had  opened  the  gate,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  shadowy  land  of  the  possible.  And  to  do 
that  is  often  to  realize  in  a  flash  the  impossi- 
bility of  one's  individual  fate.  So  many  of 


42  ®t)e  -foils  of  (Eustace. 

us  manage  to  live  ignorantly  all  our  days  and 
to  call  ourselves  happy.  Winifred  could  never 
live  quite  ignorantly  again. 

To  Eustace  the  interruption  meant  much 
less.  So  long  as  he  had  Winifred  he  could 
not  feel  that  any  of  his  dreams  hung  alto- 
gether in  tatters.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  he 
contemplated  the  penny  toys,  and  had  a  mo- 
ment of  quaint,  not  unpleasant  regret,  half 
forming  the  thought,  Why  do  we  ever  trou- 
ble ourselves  to  prepare  happiness  for  others, 
when  happiness  is  a  word  of  a  thousand  mean- 
ings ?  As  often  as  not,  to  do  so  is  to  set  a 
dinner  of  many  courses  and  many  wines  be- 
fore an  unknown  guest,  who  proves  to  be 
vegetarian  and  teetotaler,  after  all. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  the  toys?"  he 
asked  Winifred  one  day. 

"The  toys?  Oh,  give  them  to  a  chil- 
dren's hospital,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had 
a  harsh  note  in  it. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection ;  "  I'll  keep  them  and  play  with  them 
myself;  you  know  I  love  toys." 

And  on  the  following  Sunday,  when  many 
callers  came  to  Deanery  Street,  they  found 
him  in  the  drawing-room,  playing  with  a 
Noah's  ark.  Red,  green,  violet,  and  azure 
elephants,  antelopes,  zebras,  and  pigs  pro- 


foils  of  (Eustace.  43 


cessed  along  the  carpet,  guided  by  an  orange- 
coloured  Noah  in  a  purple  top-hat,  and  a  per- 
fect parterre  of  sons  and  wives.  The  fixed 
anxiety  of  their  painted  faces  suggested  that 
they  were  in  apprehension  of  the  flood,  but 
their  rigid  attitudes  implied  trust  in  the  Un- 
seen. 

Winifred's  face  that  day  seemed  changed 
to  those  who  knew  her  best.  To  one  man,  a 
soldier  who  had  admired  her  greatly  before 
her  marriage,  and  who  had  seen  no  reason  to 
change  his  opinion  of  her  since,  she  was  more 
cordial  than  usual,  and  he  went  away  curi- 
ously meditating  on  the  mystery  of  women. 

"What  has  happened  to  Mrs.  Lane?"  he 
thought  to  himself  as  he  walked  down  Park 
Lane.  "  That  last  look  of  hers  at  me,  when 
I  was  by  the  door,  going,  was  —  yes,  I'll  swear 
it  —  Regent  Street.  And  yet  Winnie  Lane  is 
the  purest  —  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  make  out 
women  !  Anyhow,  I'll  go  there  again.  Peo- 
ple say  she  and  that  fantastic  ass  she's  mar- 
ried are  devoted.  H'm  !  "  He  went  to  Pall 
Mall,  and  sat  staring  at  nothing  in  his  Club 
till  seven,  deep  in  the  mystery  of  the  female 
sex. 

And  he  went  again  to  Deanery  Street  to 
see  whether  the  vision  of  Regent  Street  was 
deceptive,  and  came  away  wondering  and  hop- 
4 


44  ®lje  -foils  of  (Eustace. 

ing.  From  this  time  the  vagaries  of  Eustace 
Lane  became  more  incessant,  more  flamboy- 
ant, than  ever,  and  Mrs.  Lane  was  perpetually 
in  society.  If  it  would  not  have  been  true  to 
say,  conventionally,  that  no  party  was  com- 
plete without  her,  yet  it  certainly  seemed, 
from  this  time,  that  she  was  incomplete  with- 
out a  party.  She  was  the  starving  wolf  after 
the  sledge  in  which  sat  the  gay  world.  If  the 
sledge  escaped  her,  she  was  left  to  face  dark- 
ness, snow,  wintry  winds,  loneliness.  In  Lon- 
don do  we  not  often  hear  the  dismal  howling 
of  the  wolves,  suggesting  steppes  of  the  heart 
frigid  as  Siberia  ? 

Eustace  grew  uneasy,  for  Winifred  seemed 
eluding  him  in  this  maze  of  entertainments. 
He  could  not  impress  the  personality  of  his 
mask  upon  her  vitally  when  she  moved  per- 
petually in  the  pantomime  processions  of 
society,  surrounded  by  grotesques,  mimes, 
dancers,  and  deformities. 

"  We  are  scarcely  ever  alone,  Winnie,"  he 
said  to  her  one  day. 

"  You  must  learn  to  love  me  in  a  crowd," 
she  answered.  "  Human  nature  can  love 
even  God  in  isolation,  but  the  man  who 
can  love  God  in  the  world  is  the  true  Chris- 
tian." 

"  I  can  love  you  anywhere,"  he  said.   " But 


of  (Eustace.  45 


you  -  "     And  then  he  stopped  and  quickly 
readjusted  his  mask  which  was  slipping  off. 

From  that  day  he  monotonously  accentu- 
ated his  absurdities.  All  London  rang  with 
them.  He  was  the  Court  Fool  of  Mayfair, 
the  buffoon  of  the  inner  circles  of  the  Me- 
tropolis, and,  by  degrees,  his  painted  fame, 
jangling  the  bells  in  its  cap,  spun  about  Eng- 
land in  a  dervish  dance,  till  Peckham  whis- 
pered of  him,  and  even  the  remotest  suburbs 
crowned  him  with  parsley  and  hung  upon  his 
doings.  All  the  blooming  flowers  of  noto- 
riety were  his,  to  hug  in  his  arms  as  he  stood 
upon  his  platform  bowing  to  the  general  ap- 
plause. His  shrine  in  Vanity  Fair  was  surely 
being  prepared.  But  he  scarcely  thought  of 
this,  being  that  ordinary,  ridiculous,  middle- 
class  thing,  an  immoderately  loving  husband, 
insane  enough  to  worship  romantically  the 
woman  to  whom  he  was  unromantically  tied 
by  the  law  of  his  countiy.  With  each  new 
fantasy  he  hoped  to  win  back  that  which  he 
had  lost.  Each  joke  was  the  throw  of  a  des- 
perate gamester,  each  tricky  invention  a  stake 
placed  on  the  number  that  would  never  turn 
up.  That  wild  time  of  his  career  was  humor- 
ous to  the  world,  how  tragic  to  himself  we 
Can  only  wonder.  He  spread  wings  like  a 
bird,  flew  hither  and  thither  as  if  a  vagrant 


46  ©Ije  JTollg  0f  (Eustace. 

for  pure  joy  and  the  pleasure  of  movement, 
darted  and  poised,  circled  and  sailed,  but  all 
the  time  his  heart  cried  aloud  for  a  nest  and 
Winifred.  Yet  he  wooed  her  only  silently  by 
his  follies,  and  set  her  each  day  farther  and 
farther  from  him. 

And  she — how  she  hated  his  notoriety, 
and  was  sick  with  weariness  when  voices  told 
her  of  his  escapades,  modulating  themselves 
to  wondering  praise.  Long  ago  she  had 
known  that  Eustace  sinned  against  his  own 
nature,  but  she  had  never  loved  him  quite 
enough  to  discover  what  that  nature  really 
was.  And  now  she  had  no  desire  to  find  out. 
He  was  only  her  husband  and  the  least  of  all 
men  to  her. 

The  Lanes  sat  at  breakfast  one  morning 
and  took  up  their  letters.  Winifred  sipped 
her  tea,  and  opened  one  or  two  carelessly. 
They  were  invitations.  Then  she  tore  the 
envelope  of  a  third,  and,  as  she  read  it,  for- 
got to  sip  her  tea.  Presently  she  laid  it  down 
slowly.  Eustace  was  looking  at  her. 

"  Winifred,"  he  said,  "  I  have  got  a  letter 
from  the  editor  of  Vanity  fair." 

"  Oh !  " 

"  He  wishes  me  to  permit  a  caricature  of 
myself  to  appear  in  his  pages." 


,£0112  of  (Etistace.  47 


Winifred's  fingers  closed  sharply  on  the 
letter  she  had  just  been  reading.  A  decision 
of  hers  in  regard  to  the  writer  of  it  was 
hanging  in  the  balance,  though  Eustace  did 
not  know  it. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Eustace,  inquiring  of  her 
silence. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  reply  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"I  am  wondering." 

She  chipped  an  eggshell  and  took  a  bit  of 
dry  toast. 

"All  those  who  appear  in  Vanity  Fair  are 
celebrated,  aren't  they  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Eustace  said. 

"  For  many  different  things." 

"  Of  course." 

"  Can  you  refuse  the  editor's  request  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should." 

"  Exactly.  Tell  me  when  you  have  written 
to  him,  and  what  you  have  written,  Eustace." 

"Yes,  Winnie,  I  will." 

Later  on  in  the  day  he  came  up  to  her 
boudoir,  and  said  to  her  : 

"  I  have  told  him  I  am  quite  willing  to 
have  my  caricature  in  his  paper." 

"Your  portrait,"  she  said.  "All  right. 
Leave  me  now,  Eustace  ;  I  have  some  writing 
to  do," 


48  ®he  foils  of  <£u0tace. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  she  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  short  letter,  which  she  posted  her- 
self. 

A  month  later  Eustace  came  bounding  up 
the  stairs  to  find  her. 

"  Winnie,  Winnie  !  "  he  called.  "  Where 
are  you  ?  I've  something  to  show  you." 

He  held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  Wini- 
fred was  not  in  the  room.  Eustace  rang  the 
bell. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Lane?"  he  asked  of  the 
footman  who  answered  it. 

"  Gone  out,  sir,"  the  man  answered. 

"  And  not  back  yet  ?  It's  very  late,"  said 
Eustace,  looking  at  his  watch. 

The  time  was  a  quarter  to  eight.  They 
were  dining  at  half-past. 

"  I  wonder  where  she  is,"  he  thought. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  gazed  at  a  cartoon 
which  represented  a  thin  man  with  a  preter- 
naturally  pale  face,  legs  like  sticks,  and 
drooping  hands  full  of  toys — himself.  Be- 
neath it  was  written,  "  His  aim  is  to  amuse." 

He  turned  a  page,  and  read,  for  the  third 
or  fourth  time,  the  following: 

"  MR.  EUSTACE  LANE. 

"  Mr.  Eustace  Bernhard  Lane,  only  son  of 
Mr.  Merton  Lane,  of  Carlton  House  Terrace, 


®he  .foils  of  Instate.  49 

was  born  in  London  twenty-eight  years  ago. 
He  is  married  to  one  of  the  belles  of  the 
day,  and  is  probably  the  most  envied  husband 
in  town. 

"Although  he  is  such  a  noted  figure  in 
society,  Mr.  Eustace  Lane  has  never  done 
any  conspicuously  good  or  bad  deed.  He 
has  neither  invented  a  bicycle  nor  written  a 
novel,  neither  lost  a  seat  in  Parliament,  nor 
found  a  mine  in  South  Africa.  Careless  of 
elevating  the  world,  he  has  been  content  to 
entertain  it,  to  make  it  laugh,  or  to  make  it 
wonder.  His  aim  is  to  amuse,  and  his  whole- 
souled  endeavour  to  succeed  in  this  ambition 
has  gained  him  the  entire  respect  of  the  friv- 
olous. What  more  could  man  desire  ? " 

As  he  finished  there  came  a  ring  at  the 
hall-door  bell. 

"Winifred!"  he  exclaimed,  and  jumped 
up  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

In  a  moment  the  footman  entered  with  a 
note. 

"A  boy  messenger  has  just  brought  this, 
sir,"  he  said. 

Eustace  took  it,  and,  as  the  man  went  out 
and  shut  the  door,  opened  it,  and  read : 

"  VICTORIA  STATION. 
"  This  is  to  say  good-bye.     By  the  time  it 


50  ®he  .foils  of  (Eustace. 

reaches  you  I  shall  have  left  London.  Not 
alone.  I  have  seen  the  cartoon.  It  is  very 
like  you.  WINIFRED." 

Eustace  sank  down  in  a  chair. 

On  the  table  at  his  elbow  lay  Vanity  Fair. 
Mechanically  he  looked  at  it,  and  read  once 
more  the  words  beneath  his  picture,  "  His 
aim  is  to  amuse." 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SOUL. 

"  I  have  been  here  before, 
But  when,  or  how,  I  cannot  tell  !  " 

ROSSETTI. 

I. 

TUESDAY  NIGHT,  November  jrd. 
THEORIES  !  What  is  the  good  of  theories  ? 
They  are  the  scourges  that  lash  our  minds  in 
modern  days,  lash  them  into  confusion,  per- 
plexity, despair.  I  have  never  been  troubled 
by  them  before.  Why  should  I  be  troubled 
by  them  now  ?  And  the  absurdity  of  Profess- 
or Black's  is  surely  obvious.  A  child  would 
laugh  at  it.  Yes,  a  child  !  I  have  never  been 
a  diary  writer.  I  have  never  been  able  to  un- 
derstand the  amusement  of  sitting  down  late 
at  night  and  scrawling  minutely  in  some  hid- 
den book  every  paltry  incident  of  one's  paltry 
days.  People  say  it  is  so  interesting  to  read 
the  entries  years  afterwards.  To  read,  as  a 
man,  the  menu  that  I  ate  through  as  a  boy, 
the  love-story  that  I  was  actor  in,  the  tragedy 
that  I  brought  about,  the  debt  that  I  have 


52  ®he  Ectnrn  of  the  Soul. 

never  paid — how  could  it  profit  me  ?  To  keep 
a  diary  has  always  seemed  to  me  merely  an 
addition  to  the  ills  of  life.  Yet  now  I  have  a 
hidden  book,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  I 
am  scrawling  in  it  to-day.  Yes,  but  for  a 
reason. 

I  want  to  make  things  clear  to  myself,  and 
I  find,  as  others,  that  my  mind  works  more 
easily  with  the  assistance  of  the  pen.  The 
actual  tracing  of  words  on  paper  dispels 
the  clouds  that  cluster  round  my  thoughts. 
I  shall  recall  events  to  set  my  mind  at  ease, 
to  prove  to  myself  how  absurd  a  man  who 
could  believe  in  Professor  Black  would  be. 
"  Little  Dry-as-dust "  I  used  to  call  him. 
Dry  ?  He  is  full  of  wild  romance,  rubbish 
that  a  school-girl  would  be  ashamed  to  be- 
lieve in.  Yet  he  is  abnormally  clever ;  his 
record  proves  that.  Still,  clever  men  are  the 
first  to  be  led  astray,  they  say.  It  is  the 
searcher  who  follows  the  wandering  light. 
What  he  says  can't  be  true.  When  I  have 
filled  these  pages,  and  read  what  I  have  writ- 
ten dispassionately,  as  one  of  the  outside  pub- 
lic might  read,  I  shall  have  done,  once  for  all, 
with  the  ridiculous  fancies  that  are  beginning 
to  make  my  life  a  burden.  To  put  my 
thoughts  in  order  will  make  a  music.  The 
evil  spirit  within  me  will  sleep,  will  die.  I 


of  the  S0nl.  53 


shall  be  cured.  It  must  be  so  —  it  shall 
be  so. 

To  go  back  to  the  beginning.  Ah  !  what 
a  long  time  ago  that  seems  !  As  a  child  I  was 
cruel.  Most  boys  are  cruel,  I  think.  My 
school  companions  were  a  merciless  set  —  mer- 
ciless to  one  another,  to  their  masters  when 
they  had  a  chance,  to  animals,  to  birds.  The 
desire  to  torture  was  in  nearly  all  of  them. 
They  loved  to  bully,  and  if  they  bullied  only 
mildly,  it  was  from  fear,  not  from  love.  They 
did  not  wish  their  boomerang  to  return  and 
slay  them.  If  a  boy  were  deformed,  they 
twitted  him.  If  a  master  were  kind,  or  gen- 
tle, or  shy,  they  made  his  life  as  intolerable 
as  they  could.  If  an  animal  or  a  bird  came 
into  their  power,  they  had  no  pity.  I  was  like 
the  rest  ;  indeed,  I  think  that  I  was  worse. 
Cruelty  is  horrible.  I  have  enough  imagina- 
tion to  do  more  than  know  that  —  to  feel  it. 

Some  say  that  it  is  lack  of  imagination 
which  makes  men  and  women  brutes.  May 
it  not  be  power  of  imagination  ?  The  inter- 
est of  torturing  is  lessened,  is  almost  lost,  if 
we  can  not  be  the  tortured  as  well  as  the  tor- 
turer. 

As  a  child  I  was  cruel  by  nature,  by  in- 
stinct. I  was  a  handsome,  well-bred,  gentle- 
manlike, gentle-looking  little  brute.  My  par- 


54  ®he  Hctnrn  of  tl)e  fionl. 

ents  adored  me,  and  I  was  good  to  them. 
They  were  so  kind  to  me  that  I  was  almost 
fond  of  them.  Why  not  ?  It  seemed  to  me 
as  politic  to  be  fond  of  them  as  of  anyone 
else.  I  did  what  I  pleased,  but  I  did  not  al- 
ways let  them  know  it ;  so  I  pleased  them. 
The  wise  child  will  take  care  to  foster  the  ig- 
norance of  its  parents.  My  people  were  pret- 
ty well  off,  and  I  was  their  only  child ;  but 
my  chief  chances  of  future  pleasure  in  life 
were  centred  in  my  grandmother,  my  mother's 
mother.  She  was  immensely  rich,  and  she 
lived  here.  This  room  in  which  I  am  writing 
now  was  her  favourite  sitting-room.  On  that 
hearth,  before  a  log  fire,  such  as  is  burning  at 
this  moment,  used  to  sit  that  wonderful  cat  of 
hers — that  horrible  cat !  Why  did  I  ever  play 
my  childish  cards  to  win  this  house,  this  place  ? 
Sometimes,  lately — very  lately  only — I  have 
wondered,  like  a  fool  perhaps.  Yet  would 
Professor  Black  say  so  ?  I  remember,  as  a 
boy  of  sixteen,  paying  my  last  visit  here  to 
my  grandmother.  It  bored  me  very  much  to 
come.  But  she  was  said  to  be  near  death,  and 
death  leaves  great  houses  vacant  for  others 
to  fill.  So  when  my  mother  said  that  I  had 
better  come,  and  my  father  added  that  he 
thought  my  grandmother  was  fonder  of  me 
than  of  my  other  relations,  I  gave  up  all  my 


ftetnrn  of  ths  Qoni.  55 


boyish  plans  for  the  holidays  with  apparent 
willingness.  Though  almost  a  child,  I  was 
not  short-sighted.  I  knew  every  boy  had  a 
future  as  well  as  a  present.  I  gave  up  my 
plans,  and  came  herewith  a  smile;  but  in  my 
heart  I  hated  my  grandmother  for  having 
power,  and  so  bending  me  to  relinquish  pleas- 
ure for  boredom.  I  hated  her,  and  I  came  to 
her  and  kissed  her,  and  saw  her  beautiful 
white  Persian  cat  sitting  before  the  fire  in  this 
room,  and  thought  of  the  fellow  who  was  my 
bosom  friend,  and  with  whom  I  longed  to  be, 
shooting,  or  fishing,  or  riding.  And  I  looked 
at  the  cat  again.  I  remember  it  began  to 
purr  when  I  went  near  to  it.  It  sat  quite  stilt, 
with  its  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire,  but  when 
I  approached  it  I  heard  it  purr  complacently. 
I  longed  to  kick  it.  The  limitations  of  its 
ridiculous  life  satisfied  it  completely.  It 
seemed  to  reproduce  in  an  absurd,  diminished 
way  my  grandmother  in  her  white  lace  cap, 
with  her  white  face  and  hands.  She  sat  in 
her  chair  all  day  and  looked  at  the  fire.  The 
cat  sat  on  the  hearthrug  and  did  the  same. 
The  cat  seemed  to  me  the  animal  personifica- 
tion of  the  human  being  who  kept  me  chained 
from  all  the  sports  and  pleasures  I  had  prom- 
ised myself  for  the  holidays.  When  I  went 
near  to  the  cat,  and  heard  it  calmly  purring 


56  ®he  Kctnrn  of  the  SonL 

at  me,  I  longed  to  do  it  an  injury.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  it  understood  what  my  grand- 
mother did  not,  and  was  complacently  tri- 
umphing at  my  voluntary  imprisonment  with 
age,  and  laughing  to  itself  at  the  pains  men — 
and  boys — will  undergo  for  the  sake  of  money. 
Brute !  I  did  not  love  my  grandmother,  and 
she  had  money.  I  hated  the  cat  utterly.  It 
hadn't  a  sou  ! 

This  beautiful  house  is  not  old.  My 
grandfather  built  it  himself.  He  had  no  love 
for  the  life  of  towns,  I  believe,  but  was  pas- 
sionately in  touch  with  nature,  and,  when  a 
young  man,  he  set  out  on  a  strange  tour 
through  England.  His  object  was  to  find  a 
perfect  view,  and  in  front  of  that  view  he  in- 
tended to  build  himself  a  habitation.  For 
nearly  a  year,  so  I  have  been  told,  he  wan- 
dered through  Scotland  and  England,  and  at 
last  he  came  to  this  place  in  Cumberland,  to 
this  village,  to  this  very  spot.  Here  his  wan- 
derings ceased.  Standing  on  the  terrace — 
then  uncultivated  forest — that  runs  in  front 
of  these  windows,  he  found  at  last  what  he 
desired.  He  bought  the  forest.  He  bought 
the  windings  of  the  river,  the  fields  upon  its 
banks,  and  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  steep 
gorge  through  which  it  runs  he  built  the  love- 
ly dwelling  that  to-day  is  mine. 


ftetnrtt  of  the  Soul.  57 


This  place  is  no  ordinary  place.  It  is 
characteristic  in  the  highest  degree.  The 
house  is  wonderfully  situated,  with  the  ground 
falling  abruptly  in  front  of  it,  the  river  form- 
ing almost  a  horseshoe  round  it.  The  woods 
are  lovely.  The  garden,  curiously,  almost 
wildly,  laid  out,  is  like  no  other  garden  I  ever 
saw.  And  the  house,  though  not  old,  is  full 
of  little  surprises,  curiously  shaped  rooms, 
remarkable  staircases,  quaint  recesses.  The 
place  is  a  place  to  remember.  The  house  is 
a  house  to  fix  itself  in  the  memory.  Nothing 
that  had  once  lived  here  could  ever  come 
back  and  forget  that  it  had  been  here.  Not 
even  an  animal  —  not  even  an  animal. 

I  wish  I  had  never  gone  to  that  dinner- 
party and  met  the  Professor.  There  was  a 
horror  coming  upon  me  then.  He  has  has- 
tened its  steps.  He  has  put  my  fears  into 
shape,  my  vague  wondering  into  words.  Why 
cannot  men  leave  life  alone  ?  AVhy  will  they 
catch  it  by  the  throat  and  wring  its  secrets 
from  it  ?  To  respect  reserve  is  one  of  the 
first  instincts  of  the  gentleman  ;  and  life  is 
full  of  reserve. 

It  is  getting  very  late.  I  thought  I  heard 
a  step  in  the  house  just  now.  I  wonder  —  I 
wonder  if  she  is  asleep.  I  wish  I  knew. 

Day   after   day   passed   by.      My  grand- 


58  ®he  fteturn  of  the  0onl. 

mother  seemed  to  be  failing,  but  almost  im- 
perceptibly. She  evidently  loved  to  have 
me  near  to  her.  Like  most  old  dying  people, 
in  her  mind  she  frantically  clutched  at  life, 
that  could  give  to  her  nothing  more;  and  I 
believe  she  grew  to  regard  me  as  the  person- 
ification of  all  that  was  leaving  her.  My  vi- 
tality warmed  her.  She  extended  her  hands 
to  my  flaming  hearthfire.  She  seemed  trying 
to  live  in  my  life,  and  at  length  became  afraid 
to  let  me  out  of  her  sight.  One  day  she  said 
to  me,  in  her  quavering,  ugly  voice — old  voices 
are  so  ugly,  like  hideous  echoes : 

"  Ronald,  I  could  never  die  while  you 
were  in  the  room.  So  long  as  you  are  with 
me,  where  I  can  touch  you,  I  shall  live." 

And  she  put  out  her  white,  corrugated 
hand,  and  fondled  my  warm  boy's  hand. 

How  I  longed  to  push  her  hand  away, 
and  get  out  into  the  sunlight  and  the  air,  and 
hear  young  voices,  the  voices  of  the  morning, 
not  of  the  twilight,  and  be  away  from  wrin- 
kled Death,  that  seemed  sitting  on  the  door- 
step of  that  house  huddled  up  like  a  beggar, 
waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened  ! 

I  was  bored  till  I  grew  malignant.  I  con- 
fess it.  And,  feeling  malignant,  I  began  to 
long  more  and  more  passionately  to  vent  my- 
self on  someone  or  something.  I  looked  at 


ffil)e  fteturn  of  tlje  Soul.  59 

the  cat,  which,  as  usual,  was  sitting  before 
the  fire. 

Animals  have  intuitions  as  keen  as  those 
of  a  woman,  keener  than  those  of  a  man. 
They  inherit  an  instinct  of  fear  of  those  who 
hate  them  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors  who 
have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  cruel  men. 
They  can  tell  by  a  look,  by  a  motion,  by  the 
tone  of  a  voice,  whether  to  expect  from  any- 
one kindness  or  malignity.  The  cat  had 
purred  complacently  on  the  first  day  of  my 
arrival,  and  had  hunched  up  her  white,  furry 
back  towards  my  hand,  and  had  smiled  with 
her  calm,  light-blue  eyes.  Now,  when  I  ap- 
proached her,  she  seemed  to  gather  herself 
together  and  to  make  herself  small.  She 
shrank  from  me.  There  was — as  I  fancied — 
a  dawning  comprehension,  a  dawning  terror 
in  her  blue  eyes.  She  always  sat  very  close 
to  my  grandmother  now,  as  if  she  sought  pro- 
tection, and  she  watched  me  as  if  she  were 
watching  for  an  intention  which  she  appre- 
hended to  grow  in  my  mind. 

And  the  intention  came. 

For,  as  the  days  went  on,  and  my  grand- 
mother still  lived,  I  began  to  grow  desperate. 
My  holiday  time  was  over  now,  but  my  par- 
ents wrote  telling  me  to  stay  where  I  was, 
and  not  to  think  of  returning  to  school.  My 
5 


60  (ftlje  Ueturn  of  the  Sonl. 

grandmother  had  caused  a  letter  to  be  sent 
to  them  in  which  she  said  that  she  could  not 
part  from  me,  and  added  that  my  parents 
would  never  have  cause  to  regret  interrupting 
my  education  for  a  time.  "  He  will  be  paid 
in  full  for  every  moment  he  loses,"  she  wrote, 
referring  to  me. 

It  seemed  a  strange  taste  in  her  to  care 
so  much  for  a  boy,  but  she  had  never  loved 
women,  and  I  was  handsome,  and  she  liked 
handsome  faces.  The  brutality  in  my  na- 
ture was  not  written  upon  my  features.  I 
had  smiling,  frank  brown  eyes,  a  lithe  young 
figure,  a  gay  boy's  voice.  My  movements 
were  quick,  and  I  have  always  been  told  that 
my  gestures  were  never  awkward,  my  demean- 
our was  never  unfinished,  as  is  the  case  so 
often  with  lads  at  school.  Outwardly  I  was 
attractive;  and  the  old  woman,  who  had 
married  two  husbands  merely  for  their  looks, 
delighted  in  feeling  that  she  had  the  power 
to  retain  me  by  her  side  at  an  age  when  most 
boys  avoid  old  people  as  if  they  were  the 
pestilence. 

And  then  I  pretended  to  love  her,  and 
obeyed  all  her  insufferably  tiresome  behests. 
But  I  longed  to  wreak  vengeance  upon  her 
all  the  same.  My  dearest  friend,  the  fellow 
with  whom  I  was  to  have  spent  my  holidays, 


®lie  ttetnrn  0f  the  Soni.  61 

was  leaving  at  the  end  of  this  term  which  I 
was  missing.  He  wrote  to  me  furious  letters, 
urging  me  to  come  back,  and  reproaching  me 
for  my  selfishness  and  lack  of  affection. 

Each  time  I  received  one  I  looked  at  the 
cat,  and  the  cat  shrank  nearer  to  my  grand- 
mother's chair. 

It  never  purred  now,  and  nothing  would 
induce  it  to  leave  the  room  where  she  sat. 
One  day  the  servant  said  to  me: 

"  I  believe  the  poor  dumb  thing  knows 
my  mistress  can't  last  very  much  longer,  sir. 
The  way  that  cat  looks  up  at  her  goes  to  my 
heart.  Ah  !  them  beasts  understand  things  as 
well  as  we  do,  I  believe." 

I  think  the  cat  understood  quite  well.  It 
did  watch  my  grandmother  in  a  very  strange 
way,  gazing  up  into  her  face,  as  if  to  mark 
the  changing  contours,  tlje  increasing  lines, 
the  down-droop  of  the  features,  that  bespoke 
the  gradual  soft  approach  of  death.  It  lis- 
tened to  the  sound  of  her  voice ;  and  as,  each 
day,  the  voice  grew  more  vague,  more  weak 
and  toneless,  an  anxiety  that  made  me  exult 
dawned  and  deepened  in  its  blue  eyes.  Or  so 
I  thought. 

I  had  a  great  deal  of  morbid  imagination 
at  that  age,  and  loved  to  weave  a  web  of  fan- 
cies, mostly  horrible,  around  almost  every- 


62  ®he  fUttmt  of  tlje  Soul. 

thing  that  entered  into  my  life.  It  pleased 
me  to  believe  that  the  cat  understood  each 
new  intention  that  came  into  my  mind,  read 
me  silently  from  its  place  near  the  fire,  tracked 
my  thoughts,  and  was  terror-stricken  as  they 
concentrated  themselves  round  a  definite  re- 
solve, which  hardened  and  toughened  day  by 
day. 

It  pleased  me  to  believe,  do  I  say?  I  did 
really  believe,  and  do  believe  now,  that  the 
cat  understood  all,  and  grew  haggard  with 
fear  as  my  grandmother  failed  visibly.  For 
it  knew  what  the  end  would  mean  for  it. 

That  first  day  of  my  arrival,  when  I  saw 
my  grandmother  in  her  white  cap,  with  her 
white  face  and  hands,  and  the  big  white  cat 
sitting  near  to  her,  I  had  thought  there  was  a 
similarity  between  them.  That  similarity 
struck  me  more  forcibly,  grew  upon  me,  as 
my  time  in  the  house  grew  longer,  until  the 
latter  seemed  almost  a  reproduction  of  the 
former,  and  after  each  letter  from  my  friend 
my  hate  for  the  two  increased.  But  my  hate 
for  my  grandmother  was  impotent,  and  would 
always  be  so.  I  could  never  repay  her  for 
the  ennui,  the  furious,  forced  inactivity  which 
made  my  life  a  burden,  and  spurred  my  bad 
passions  while  they  lulled  me  in  a  terrible, 
enforced  repose.  I  could  repay  her  favour- 


She  fUtnrn  of  th.e  Soul.  63 

ite,  the  thing  she  had  always  cherished,  her 
feline  confidant,  who  lived  in  safety  under  the 
shadow  of  her  protection.  I  could  wreak  my 
fury  on  that  when  the  protection  was  with- 
drawn, as  it  must  be  at  last.  It  seemed  to 
my  brutal,  imaginative,  unfinished  boy's  mind 
that  the  murder  of  her  pet  must  hurt  and 
wound  my  grandmother  even  after  she  was 
dead.  I  would  make  her  suffer  then,  when 
she  was  impotent  to  wreak  a  vengeance  upon 
me.  I  would  kill  the  cat. 

The  creature  knew  my  resolve  the  day  I 
made  it,  and  had  even,  I  should  say,  antici- 
pated it. 

As  I  sat  day  after  day  beside  my  grand- 
mother's armchair  in  the  dim  room,  with  the 
blinds  drawn  to  shut  out  the  summer  sun- 
light, and  talked  to  her  in  a  subdued  and 
reverent  voice,  agreeing  with  all  the  old  ba- 
nalities she  uttered,  all  the  preposterous  opin- 
ions she  propounded,  all  the  commands  she 
laid  upon  me,  I  gazed  beyond  her  at  the  cat, 
and  the  creature  was  haggard  with  appre- 
hension. 

It  knew,  as  I  knew,  that  its  day  was  corn- 
ing. Sometimes  I  bent  down  and  took  it  up 
on  my  lap  to  please  my  grandmother,  and 
praised  its  beauty  and  its  gentleness  to  her. 
And  all  the  time  I  felt  its  warm,  furry  body 


64  ®he  fUturn  of  the  Soul. 

trembling  with  horror  between  my  hands. 
This  pleased  me,  and  I  pretended  that  I  was 
never  happy  unless  it  was  on  my  knees.  I 
kept  it  there  for  hours,  stroking  it  so  tender- 
ly, smoothing  its  thick  white  coat,  which  was 
always  in  the  most  perfect  order,  talking  to 
it,  caressing  it. 

And  sometimes  I  took  its  head  between 
my  two  hands,  turned  its  face  to  mine,  and 
stared  into  its  large  blue  eyes.  Then  I  could 
read  all  its  agony,  all  its  torture  of  apprehen- 
sion :  and  in  spite  of  my  friend's  letters,  and 
the  dulness  of  my  days,  I  was  almost  happy. 

The  summer  was  deepening,  the  glow  of 
the  roses  flushed  the  garden  ways,  the  skies 
were  clear  above  Scawfell,  when  the  end  at 
last  drew  near.  My  grandmother's  face  was 
now  scarcely  recognizable.  The  eyes  were 
sunk  deep  in  her  head.  All  expression 
seemed  to  fade  gradually  away.  Her  cheeks 
were  no  longer  fine  ivory  white ;  a  dull,  sick- 
ening, yellow  pallor  overspread  them.  She 
seldom  looked  at  me  now,  but  rested  en- 
tombed in  her  great  armchair,  her  shrunken 
limbs  seeming  to  tend  downwards,  as  if  she 
were  inclined  to  slide  to  the  floor  and  die 
there.  Her  lips  were  thin  and  dry,  and 
moved  perpetually  in  a  silent  chattering,  as 
if  her  mind  were  talking  and  her  voice  were 


She  ftetnrn  0f  tlje  0oni.  65 

already  dead.  The  tide  of  life  was  retreating 
from  her  body.  I  could  almost  see  it  visibly 
ebb  away.  The  failing  waves  made  no  sound 
upon  the  shore.  Death  is  uncanny,  like  all 
silent  things. 

Her  maid  wished  her  to  stay  entirely  in 
bed,  but  she  would  get  up,  muttering  that  she 
was  well ;  and  the  doctor  said  it  was  useless 
to  hinder  her.  She  had  no  specific  disease. 
Only  the  years  were  taking  their  last  toll  of 
her.  So  she  was  placed  in  her  chair  each  day 
by  the  fire,  and  sat  there  till  evening,  mutter- 
ing with  those  dry  lips.  The  stiff  folds  of  her 
silken  skirts  formed  an  angle,  and  there  the 
cat  crouched  hour  after  hour,  a  silent,  white, 
waiting  thing. 

And  the  waves  ebbed  and  ebbed  away,  and 
I  waited  too. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  sat  by  my  grand- 
mother, the  servant  entered  with  a  letter  for 
me  just  arrived  by  the  post.  I  took  it  up.  It 
was  from  Willoughby,  my  school-friend.  He 
said  the  term  was  over,  that  he  had  left 
school,  and  his  father  had  decided  to  send 
him  out  to  America  to  start  in  business  in 
New  York,  instead  of  entering  him  at  Oxford 
as  he  had  hoped.  He  bade  me  good-bye,  and 
said  he  supposed  we  should  not  meet  again 
for  years;  "but,"  he  added,  "no  doubt  you 


66  ®he  ftetnrn  of  lh*  Bonl. 

won't  care  a  straw,  so  long  as  you  get  the 
confounded  money  you're  after.  You've 
taught  me  one  of  the  lessons  of  life,  young 
Ronald — never  to  believe  in  friendship." 

As  I  read  the  letter  I  set  my  teeth.  All 
that  was  good  in  my  nature  centred  round 
Willoughby.  He  was  a  really  fine  fellow.  I 
honestly  and  truly  loved  him.  His  news 
gave  me  a  bitter  shock,  and  turned  my  heart 
to  iron  and  to  fire.  Perhaps  I  should  never 
see  him  again  ;  even  if  I  did,  time  would 
have  changed  him,  seared  him — my  friend,  in 
his  wonderful  youth,  with  the  morning  in  his 
eyes,  would  be  no  more.  I  hated  myself  in 
that  moment  for  having  stayed  ;  I  hated  still 
more  her  who  had  kept  me.  For  the  mo- 
ment I  was  carried  out  of  myself.  I  crushed 
the  letter  up  in  my  burning  hand.  I  turned 
fiercely  round  upon  that  yellow,  enigmatic, 
dying  figure  in  the  great  chair.  All  the  fury, 
locked  within  my  heart  for  so  long,  rose  to 
the  surface,  and  drove  self-interest  away.  I 
turned  upon  my  grandmother  with  blazing 
eyes  and  trembling  limbs.  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  utter  a  torrent  of  reproachful 
words,  when — what  was  it  ? — what  slight 
change  had  stolen  into  the  wrinkled,  yellow 
face  ?  I  bent  over  her.  The  eyes  gazed  at 
me,  but  so  horribly  !  She  sat  so  low  in  her 


®he  tourn  of  the  Soul.  67 

chair ;  she  looked  so  fearful,  so  very  strange. 
I  put  my  fingers  on  her  eyelids  ;  I  drew  them 
down  over  the  eyeballs  :  they  did  not  open 
again.  I  felt  her  withered  hands :  they 
were  ice.  Then  I  knew,  and  I  felt  myself 
smiling.  I  leaned  over  the  dead  woman. 
There,  on  the  far  side  of  her,  crouched  the 
cat.  Its  white  fur  was  all  bristling  ;  its  blue 
eyes  were  dilated  ;  on  its  jaws  there  were 
flecks  of  foam. 

I  leaned  over  the  dead  woman  and  took 
it  in  my  arms. 

That  was  nearly  twenty  years  ago,  and 
yet  to-night  the  memory  of  that  moment, 
and  what  followed  it,  bring  a  fear  to  my 
heart  which  I  must  combat.  I  have  read  of 
men  who  lived  for  long  spaces  of  time 
haunted  by  demons  created  by  their  imagina- 
tion, and  I  have  laughed  at  them  and  pitied 
them.  Surely  I  am  not  going  to  join  in  their 
folly,  in  their  madness,  led  to  the  gates  of 
terror  by  my  own  fancies,  half-confirmed,  ap- 
parently, by  the  chance  utterances  of  a  con- 
ceited Professor — a  man  of  fads,  although  a 
man  of  science. 

That  was  twenty  years  ago.  After  to- 
night let  me  forget  it.  After  to-night,  do  I 
say  ?  Hark  !  the  birds  are  twittering  in  the 


68  &he  Return  of  the  Son!. 

dew  outside.  The  pale,  early  sun-shafts  strike 
over  the  moors.  And  I  am  tired.  To-mor- 
row night  I  will  finish  this  wrestle  with  my 
own  folly  ;  I  will  give  the  coup  de  grace  to 
my  imagination.  But  no  more  now.  My 
brain  is  not  calm,  and  I  will  not  write  in  ex- 
citement. 

II. 

WEDNESDAY  NIGHT,  November  4th.. 

MARGOT  has  gone  to  bed  at  last,  and  I 
am  alone.  This  has  been  a  horrible  day — 
horrible  ;  but  I  will  not  dwell  upofl  it. 

After  the  death  of  my  grandmother,  I  went 
back  to  school  again.  But  Willoughby  was 
gone,  and  he  could  not  forgive  me.  He 
wrote  to  me  once  or  twice  from  New  York, 
and  then  I  ceased  to  hear  from  him.  He 
died  out  of  my  life.  His  affection  for  me 
had  evidently  declined  from  the  day  when  he 
took  it  into  his  head  that  I  was  only  a  money- 
grubber,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that 
the  Jew  instinct  had  developed  in  me  at  an 
abnormally  early  age.  I  let  him  go.  What 
did  it  matter?  But  I  was  always  glad  that  I 
had  been  cruel  on  the  day  my  grandmother 
died.  I  never  repented  of  what  I  did — never. 
If  I  had,  I  might  be  happier  now. 

I  went  back  to  school.     I  studied,  played, 


®he  ftetnrn  of  the  Qonl.  69 

got  into  mischief  and  out  of  it  again,  like 
other  boys ;  but  in  my  life  there  seemed  to 
be  an  eternal  coldness,  that  I  alone,  perhaps, 
was  conscious  of.  My  deed  of  cruelty,  of 
brutal  revenge  on  the  thing  that  had  never 
done  me  injury,  had  seared  my  soul.  I  was 
not  sorry,  but  I  could  not  forget ;  and  some- 
times I  thought — how  ridiculous  it  looks 
written  down ! — that  there  was  a  power  hid- 
den somewhere  which  could  not  forget  either, 
and  that  a  penalty  might  have  to  be  paid. 
Because  a  creature  is  dumb,  must  its  soul  die 
when  it  dies  ?  Is  not  the  soul,  perhaps — as 
he  said — a  wanderer  through  many  bodies  ? 

But  if  I  did  not  kill  a  soul,  as  I  killed  a 
body,  the  day  my  grandmother  died,  where  is 
that  soul  now  ?  That  is  what  I  want  to  ar- 
rive at,  that  is  what  I  must  arrive  at,  if  I  am 
to  be  happy. 

I  went  back  to  school,  and  I  passed  to 
Oxford.  I  tasted  the  strange,  unique  life  of 
a  university,  narrow,  yet  pulsating,  where  the 
youth,  that  is  so  green  and  springing,  tries  to 
arm  itself  for  the  battle  with  the  weapons 
forged  by  the  dead  and  sharpened  by  the 
more  elderly  among  the  living.  I  did  well 
there,  and  I  passed  on  into  the  world.  And 
then  at  last  I  began  to  understand  the  value 
of  my  inheritance  ;  for  all  that  had  been  my 


70  &t)e  ftetnrn  of  the  Qonl 

grandmother's  was  now  mine.  My  people 
wished  me  to  marry,  but  I  had  no  desire  to 
fetter  myself.  So  I  took  the  sponge  in  my 
strong  young  hands,  and  tried  to  squeeze  it 
dry.  And  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  sad — I 
did  not  know  it  until,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
three,  just  seventeen  years  after  my  grand- 
mother died,  I  understood  the  sort  of  thing 
happiness  is.  Of  course,  it  was  love  that 
brought  to  me  understanding.  I  need  not 
explain  that.  I  had  often  played  on  love ; 
now  love  began  to  play  on  me.  I  trembled 
at  the  harmonies  his  hands  evoked. 

I  met  a  young  girl,  very  young,  just  on 
the  verge  of  life  and  of  womanhood.  She 
was  seventeen  when  I  first  saw  her,  and  she 
was  valsing  at  a  big  ball  in  London — her  first 
ball.  She  passed  me  in  the  crowd  of  dancers, 
and  I  noticed  her.  As  she  was  a  debutante  her 
dress  was  naturally  snow-white.  There  was  no 
touch  of  colour  about  it — not  a  flower,  not  a 
jewel.  Her  hair  was  the  palest  yellow  I  had 
almost  ever  seen — the  colour  of  an  early 
primrose.  Naturally  fluffy,  it  nearly  con- 
cealed the  white  riband  that  ran  through  it, 
and  clustered  in  tendrils  and  tiny  natural 
curls  upon  her  neck.  Her  skin  was  whiter  than 
ivory — a  clear,  luminous  white.  Her  eyes  were 
very  large  and  china-blue  in  colour. 


(fthe  ftetnrn  of  the  6oni. 


This  young  girl  dancing  passed  and  re- 
passed  me,  and  my  glance  rested  on  her  idly, 
even  cynically.  For  she  seemed  so  happy, 
and  at  that  time  happiness  won  my  languid 
wonder,  if  ingenuously  exhibited.  To  be 
happy  seemed  almost  to  be  mindless.  But 
by  degrees  I  found  myself  watching  this  girl, 
and  more  closely.  Another  dance  began.  She 
joined  it  with  another  partner.  But  she  seemed 
just  as  pleased  with  him  as  with  her  former 
one.  She  would  not  let  him  pause  to  rest ; 
she  kept  him  dancing  all  the  time,  her  youth 
and  freshness  spoken  in  that  gentle  compel- 
ling. I  grew  interested  in  her,  even  acutely 
so.  She  seemed  to  me  like  the  spirit  of  youth 
dancing  over  the  body  of  Time.  I  resolved 
to  know  her.  I  felt  weary ;  I  thought  she 
might  revive  me.  The  dance  drew  to  an  end, 
and  I  approached  my  hostess,  pointed  the 
girl  out,  and  asked  for  an  introduction.  Her 
name  was  Margot  Magendie,  I  found,  and  she 
was  an  heiress  as  well  as  a  beauty. 

I  did  not  care.  It  was  her  humanity  that 
drew  me,  nothing  else. 

But,  strange  to  say,  when  the  moment  for 
the  introduction  arrived,  and  I  stood  face  to 
face  with  Miss  Magendie,  I  felt  an  extraordi- 
nary shrinking  from  her.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand  it,  but  my  blood  ran  cold, 


72  ®l)e  Betnrn  of  the  Soul. 

and  my  pulses  almost  ceased  to  beat.  I 
would  have  avoided  her;  an  instinct  within 
me  seemed  suddenly  to  cry  out  against  her. 
But  it  was  too  late :  the  introduction  was 
effected ;  her  hand  rested  on  my  arm. 

I  was  actually  trembling.  She  did  not 
appear  to  notice  it.  The  band  played  a  valse, 
and  the  inexplicable  horror  that  had  seized 
me  lost  itself  in  the  gay  music.  It  never  re- 
turned until  lately. 

I  seldom  enjoyed  a  valse  more.  Our  steps 
suited  so  perfectly,  and  her  obvious  childish 
pleasure  communicated  itself  to  me.  The 
spirit  of  youth  in  her  knocked  on  my  rather 
jaded  heart,  and  I  opened  to  it.  That  was 
beautiful  and  strange.  I  talked  with  her, 
and  I  felt  myself  younger,  ingenuous  rather 
than  cynical,  inclined  even  to  a  radiant, 
though  foolish,  optimism.  She  was  very 
natural,  very  imperfect  in  worldly  education, 
full  of  fragmentary  but  decisive  views  on 
life,  quite  unabashed  in  giving  them  forth, 
quite  inconsiderate  in  summoning  my  adher- 
ence to  them. 

And  then,  presently,  as  we  sat  in  a  dim 
corridor  under  a  rosy  hanging  lamp,  in  saying 
something  she  looked,  with  her  great  blue 
eyes,  right  into  my  face.  Some  very  faint 
recollection  awoke  and  stirred  in  my  mind. 


®he  Hetnrn  of  the  Sottl.  73 

"  Surely,"  I  said  hesitatingly — "  surely  I 
have  seen  you  before  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  remember  your  eyes." 

As  I  spoke  I  was  thinking  hard,  chasing 
the  vagrant  recollection  that  eluded  me. 

She  smiled. 

"  You  don't  remember  my  face  ? " 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

"  Nor  I  yours.  If  we  had  seen  each  other, 
surely  we  should  recollect  it." 

Then  she  blushed,  suddenly  realizing  that 
her  words  implied,  perhaps,  more  than  she 
had  meant.  I  did  not  pay  the  obvious  com- 
pliment. Those  blue  eyes  and  something  in 
their  expression  moved  me  strangely;  but  I 
could  not  tell  why.  When  I  said  good-bye 
to  her  that  night,  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
call. 

She  assented. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  very  beauti- 
ful courtship,  which  gave  a  colour  to  life,  a 
music  to  existence,  a  meaning  to  every  slight- 
est sensation. 

And  was  it  love  that  laid  to  sleep  recollec- 
tion, that  sang  a  lullaby  to  awakening  hor- 
ror, and  strewed  poppies  over  it  till  it  sighed 
itself  into  slumber  ?  Was  it  love  that  drowned 
my  mind  in  deep  and  charmed  waters,  bind- 
ing the  strange  powers  that  every  mind  pos- 


®t)e  Betnrn  of  tlje  goal. 


sesses  in  flowery  garlands  stronger  than  any 
fetters  of  iron  ?  Was  it  love  that,  calling  up 
dreams,  alienated  my  thoughts  from  their 
search  after  reality  ? 

I  hardly  know.  I  only  know  that  I  grew 
to  love  Margot,  and  only  looked  for  love  in 
her  blue  eyes,  not  for  any  deed  of  the  past 
that  might  be  mirrored  there. 

And  I  made  her  love  me. 

She  gave  her  child's  heart  to  my  keeping 
with  a  perfect  confidence  that  only  a  perfect 
affection  could  engender.  She  did  love  me 
then.  No  circumstances  of  to-day  can  break 
that  fact  under  their  hammers.  She  did  love 
me,  and  it  is  the  knowledge  that  she  did 
which  gives  so  much  of  fear  to  me  now. 

For  great  changes  in  the  human  mind  are 
terrible.  As  we  realize  them  we  realize  the 
limitless  possibilities  of  sinister  deeds  that  lie 
hidden  in  every  human  being.  A  little  child 
that  loves  a  doll  can  become  an  old,  crafty, 
secret  murderer.  How  horrible  ! 

And  perhaps  it  is  still  more  horrible  to 
think  that,  while  the  human  envelope  remains 
totally  unchanged,  every  word  of  the  letter 
within  may  become  altered,  and  a  message  of 
peace  fade  into  a  sentence  of  death. 

Margot's  face  is  the  same  face  now  as  it 
was  when  I  married  her — scarcely  older,  cer- 


©he  ftetnrn  of  the  Soul.  75 

tainly  not  less  beautiful.  Only  the  expres- 
sion of  the  eyes  has  changed. 

For  we  were  married.  After  a  year  of 
love-making,  which  never  tired  either  of  us, 
we  elected  to  bind  ourselves,  to  fuse  the  two 
into  one. 

We  went  abroad  for  the  honeymoon,  and, 
instead  of  shortening  it  to  the  fashionable 
fortnight,  we  travelled  for  nearly  six  months, 
and  were  happy  all  the  time. 

Boredom  never  set  in.  Margot  had  a 
beautiful  mind  as  well  as  a  beautiful  face. 
She  softened  me  through  my  affection.  The 
current  of  my  life  began  to  set  in  a  different 
direction.  I  turned  the  pages  of  a  book  of 
pity  and  of  death  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
Pierre  Loti.  I  could  hear  at  last  the  great 
cry  for  sympathy,  which  is  the  music  of  this 
strange  suffering  world,  and,  listening  to  it, 
in  my  heart  there  rang  an  echo.  The  cruelty 
in  my  nature  seemed  to  shrivel  up.  I  was 
more  gentle  than  I  had  been,  more  gentle 
than  I  had  thought  I  could  ever  be. 

At  last,  in  the  late  spring,  we  started  for 
home.  We  stayed  for  a  week  in  London,  and 
then  we  travelled  north.  Margot  had  never 
seen  her  future  home,  had  never  even  been  in 
Cumberland  before.  She  was  full  of  excite- 
ment and  happiness,  a  veritable  child  in  the 
6 


76  (Elje  ftetttrn  of  th.e  Soul. 

ready  and  ardent  expression  of  her  feelings. 
The  station  is  several  miles  from  the  house, 
and  is  on  the  edge  of  the  sea.  When  the 
train  pulled  up  at  the  wayside  platform  the 
day  drew  towards  sunset,  and  the  flat  levels 
of  the  beach  shone  with  a  rich,  liquid,  amber 
light.  In  the  distance  the  sea  was  tossing 
and  tumbling,  whipped  into  foam  by  a  fresh 
wind.  The  Isle  of  Man  lay  far  away,  dark, 
mysterious,  under  a  stack  of  bellying  white 
clouds,  just  beginning  to  be  tinged  with  the 
faintest  rose. 

Margot  found  the  scene  beautiful,  the 
wind  life-giving,  the  flat  sand-banks,  the 
shining  levels,  even. the  dry,  spiky  grass  that 
fluttered  in  the  breeze,  fascinating  and  re- 
freshing. 

"  I  feel  near  the  heart  of  Nature  in  a 
place  like  this,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  a  sea- 
gull that  hovered  over  the  little  platform, 
crying  to  the  wind  on  which  it  hung. 

The  train  stole  off  along  the  edge  of  the 
sands,  till  we  could  see  only  the  white  stream- 
er of  its  smoke  trailing  towards  the  sun.  We 
turned  away  from  the  sea,  got  into  the  car- 
riage that  was  waiting  for  us,  and  set  our 
faces  inland.  The  ocean  was  blotted  out  by 
the  low  grass  and  heather-covered  banks  that 
divided  the  fields.  Presently  we  plunged  into 


ftetnrn  of  tlje  Soul.  77 


woods.  The  road  descended  sharply.  A  vil- 
lage, an  abruptly  winding  river  sprang  into 
sight. 

We  were  on  my  land.  We  passed  the  inn, 
the  Rainwood  Arms,  named  after  my  grand- 
father's family.  The  people  whom  we  met 
stared  curiously  and  saluted  in  rustic  fashion. 

Margot  was  full  of  excitement  and  pleas- 
ure, and  talked  incessantly,  holding  my  hand 
tightly  in  hers  and  asking  a  thousand  ques- 
tions. Passing  through  the  village,  we  mount- 
ed a  hill  towards  a  thick  grove  of  trees. 

"  The  house  stands  among  them,"  I  said, 
pointing. 

She  sprang  up  eagerly  in  the  carriage  to 
find  it,  but  it  was  hidden. 

We  dashed  through  the  gate  into  the  mo- 
mentary darkness  of  the  drive,  emerged  be- 
tween great  green  lawns,  and  drew  up  before 
the  big  doorway  of  the  hall.  I  looked  into 
her  eyes,  and  said  "  Welcome  !  " 

She  only  smiled  in  answer. 

I  would  not  let  her  enter  the  house  imme- 
diately, but  made  her  come  with  me  to  the 
terrace  above  the  river,  to  see  the  view  over 
the  Cumbrian  mountains  and  the  moors  of 
Eskdale. 

The  sky  was  very  clear  and  pale,  but  over 
Styhead  the  clouds  were  boiling  up.  The 


ttefnrn  0f  tlje  Soul. 


Screes  that  guard  ebon  Wastwater  looked 
grim  and  sad. 

Margot  stood  beside  me  on  the  terrace, 
but  her  chatter  had  been  succeeded  by  si- 
lence. And  I,  too,  was  silent  for  the  mo- 
ment, absorbed  in  contemplation.  But  pres- 
ently I  turned  to  her,  wishing  to  see  how  she 
was  impressed  by  her  new  domain. 

She  was  not  looking  towards  the  river  and 
the  hills,  but  at  the  terrace  walk  itself,  the 
band  of  emerald  turf  that  bordered  it,  the 
stone  pots  full  of  flowers,  the  winding  way 
that  led  into  the  shrubbery. 

She  was  looking  at  these  intently,  and 
with  a  strangely  puzzled,  almost  startled  ex- 
pression. 

"  Hush  !  Don't  speak  to  me  for  a  mo- 
ment," she  said,  as  I  opened  my  lips.  "  Don't  ; 
I  want  to  -  How  odd  this  is  !  " 

And  she  gazed  up  at  the  windows  of  the 
house,  at  the  creepers  that  climbed  its  walls, 
at  the  sloping  roof  and  the  irregular  chim- 
ney-stacks. 

Her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  and  her  eyes 
were  full  of  an  inward  expression  that  told 
me  she  was  struggling  with  forgetfulness  and 
desired  recollection. 

I  was  silent,  wondering. 

At  last  she  said  :  "  Ronald,  I  have  never 


®l)e  ttcturn  of  tl)e  Soul.  79 

been  in  the  North  of  England  before,  never 
set  foot  in  Cumberland ;  yet  I  seem  to  know 
this  terrace  walk,  those  very  flower-pots,  the 
garden,  the  look  of  that  roof,  those  chimneys, 
even  the  slanting  way  in  which  that  great 
creeper  climbs.  Is  it  not — is  it  not  very 
strange  ? " 

She  gazed  up  at  me,  and  in  her  blue  eyes 
there  was  an  expression  almost  of  fear. 

I  smiled  down  on  her.  "  It  must  be  your 
fancy,"  I  said. 

"  It  does  not  seem  so,"  she  replied.  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  here  before,  and  often, 
or  for  a  long  time."  She  paused;  then  she 
said :  "  Do  let  me  go  into  the  house.  There 
ought  to  be  a  room  there — a  room — I  seem 
almost  to  see  it.  Come!  Let  us  go  in." 

She  took  my  hand  and  drew  me  towards 
the  hall  door.  The  servants  were  carrying  in 
the  luggage,  and  there  was  a  certain  amount 
of  confusion  and  noise,  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice  it.  She  was  intent  on  something; 
I  could  not  tell  what. 

"  Do  show  me  the  house,  Ronald — the 
drawing-room,  and — and — there  is  another 
room  I  wish  to  see." 

"You  shall  see  them  all,  dear,"  I  said. 
"You  are  excited.  It  is  natural  enough. 
This  is  the  drawing-room." 


8o  ®he  ttetnrn  of  itye  0oul. 

She  glanced  round  it  hastily. 

"  And  now  the  others !  "  she  exclaimed. 

I  took  her  to  the  dining-room,  the  library, 
and  the  various  apartments  on  the  ground- 
floor. 

She  scarcely  looked  at  them.  When  we 
had  finished  exploring,  "Are  these  all?"  she 
asked,  with  a  wavering  accent  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"All,"  I  answered. 

"Then — show  me  the  rooms  upstairs." 

We  ascended  the  shallow  oak  steps,  and 
passed  first  into  the  apartment  in  which  my 
grandmother  had  died. 

It  had  been  done  up  since  then,  refur- 
nished, and  almost  completely  altered.  Only 
the  wide  fireplace,  with  its  brass  dogs  and  its 
heavy  oaken  mantelpiece,  had  been  left  un- 
touched. 

Margot  glanced  hastily  round.  Then  she 
walked  up  to  the  fireplace,  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"There  ought  to  be  a  fire  here,"  she 
said. 

"  But  it  is  summer,"  I  answered,  wonder- 
ing. 

"And  a  chair  there,"  she  went  on,  in  a 
curious  low  voice,  indicating — I  think  now, 
or  is  it  my  imagination  ? — the  very  spot  where 


Hemrn  of  the  Soul.  81 


my  grandmother  was  wont  to  sit.  "Yes  —  I 
seem  to  remember,  and  yet  not  to  remem- 
ber." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  her  white  brows 
were  knit. 

Suddenly  she  said  :  "  Ronald,  I  don't  think 
I  like  this  room.  There  is  something  —  I 
don't  know  —  I  don't  think  I  could  sit  here  ; 
and  I  seem  to  remember  —  something  about 
it,  as  I  did  about  the  terrace.  What  can  it 
mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  you  are  tired  and  over- 
excited, darling.  Your  nerves  are  too  highly 
strung,  and  nerves  play  us  strange  tricks. 
Come  to  your  own  room  and  take  off  your 
things,  and  when  you  have  had  some  tea,  you 
will  be  all  right  again." 

Yes,  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe  that  tea 
was  the  panacea  for  an  undreamed-of,  a  then 
unimaginable,  evil. 

I  thought  Margot  was  simply  an  overtired 
and  imaginative  child  that  evening.  If  I 
could  believe  so  now  ! 

We  went  up  into  her  boudoir  and  had  tea, 
and  she  grew  more  like  herself  ;  but  several 
times  that  night  I  observed  her  looking  puz- 
zled and  thoughtful,  and  a  certain  expression 
of  anxiety  shone  in  her  blue  eyes  that  was 
new  to  them  then. 


82  ®he  ttetnrn  of  the  Soul. 

But  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  and  I  was- 
happy.  Two  or  three  days  passed,  and  Mar- 
got  did  not  again  refer  to  her  curious  sensa- 
tion of  pre-knowledge  of  the  house  and  gar- 
den. I  fancied  there  was  a  slight  alteration 
in  her  manner  ;  that  was  all.  She  seemed  a 
little  restless.  Her  vivacity  flagged  now  and 
then.  She  was  more  willing  to  be  alone  than 
she  had  been.  But  we  were  old  married  folk 
now,  and  could  not  be  always  in  each  other's 
sight.  I  had  a  great  many  people  connected 
with  the  estate  to  see,  and  had  to  gather  up 
the  tangled  threads  of  many  affairs. 

The  honeymoon  was  over.  Of  course  we 
could  not  always  be  together. 

Still,  1  should  have  wished  Margot  to  de- 
sire it,  and  I  could  not  hide  from  myself  that 
now  and  then  she  scarcely  concealed  a  slight 
impatience  to  be  left  in  solitude.  This  trou- 
bled me,  but  only  a  little,  for  she  was  gener- 
ally as  fond  as  ever.  That  evening,  however, 
an  incident  occurred  which  rendered  me  de- 
cidedly uneasy,  and  made  me  wonder  if  my 
wife  were  not  inclined  to  that  curse  of  highly- 
strung  women — hysteria ! 

I  had  been  riding  over  the  moors  to  visit 
a  tenant-farmer  who  lived  at  some  distance, 
and  did  not  return  until  twilight.  Dismount- 
ing, I  let  myself  into  the  house,  traversed  the 


<2ri)e  Hetnrn  of  the  Sottl.  83 

hall,  and  ascended  the  stairs.  As  I  wore 
spurs,  and  the  steps  were  of  polished  oak  and 
uncarpeted,  I  walked  noisily  enough  to  warn 
anyone  of  my  approach.  I  was  passing  the 
door  of  the  room  that  had  been  my  grand- 
mother's sitting-room,  when  I -noticed  that  it 
stood  open.  The  house  was  rather  dark,  and 
the  interior  was  dim  enough,  but  I  could  see 
a  figure  in  a  white  dress  moving  about  inside. 
I  recognised  Margot,  and  wondered  what  she 
was  doing,  but  her  movements  were  so  singu- 
lar that,  instead  of  speaking  to  her,  I  stood 
in  the  doorway  and  watched  her. 

She  was  walking,  with  a  very  peculiar, 
stealthy  step,  around  the  room,  not  as  if  she 
were  looking  for  anything,  but  merely  as  if 
she  were  restless  or  ill  at  ease.  But  what 
struck  me  forcibly  was  this,  that  there  was 
something  curiously  animal  in  her  move- 
ments, seen  thus  in  a  dim  half-light  that  only 
partially  revealed  her  to  me.  I  had  never 
seen  a  woman  walk  in  that  strangely  wild  yet 
soft  way  before.  There  was  something  un- 
canny about  it,  that  rendered  me  extremely 
discomforted ;  yet  I  was  quite  fascinated,  and 
rooted  to  the  ground. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  stood  there.  I 
was  so  completely  absorbed  in  the  passion  of 
the  gazer  that  the  passage  of  time  did  not 


84  ®l)e  Eelorn  of  the  Soul. 

concern  me  in  the  least.  I  was  as  one  assist- 
ing at  a  strange  spectacle.  This  white  thing 
moving  in  the  dark  did  not  suggest  my  wife 
to  me,  although  it  was  she.  I  might  have 
been  watching  an  animal,  vague,  yet  purpose- 
ful of  mind,  tracing  out  some  hidden  thing, 
following  out  some  instinct  quite  foreign  to 
humanity.  I  remember  that  presently  I  in- 
voluntarily clasped  my  hands  together,  and 
felt  that  they  were  very  cold.  Perspiration 
broke  out  on  my  face.  I  was  painfully,  un- 
naturally moved,  and  a  violent  desire  to  be 
away  from  this  white  moving  thing  came 
over  me.N  Walking  as  softly  as  I  could,  I 
went  to  my  dressing-room,  shut  the  door,  and 
sat  down  on  a  chair.  I  never  remember  to 
have  felt  thoroughly  unnerved  before,  but 
now  I  found  myself  actually  shaken,  palsied. 
I  could  understand  how  deadly  a  thing  fear 
is.  I  lit  a  candle  hastily,  and  as  I  did  so  a 
knock  came  to  the  door. 

Margot's  voice  said,  "  May  I  come  in  ? " 
I  felt  unable  to  reply,  so  I  got  up  and 
admitted  her. 

She  entered  smiling,  and  looking  such  a 
child,  so  innocent,  so  tender,  that  I  almost 
laughed  aloud.  That  I,  a  man,  should  have 
been  frightened  by  a  child  in  a  white  dress, 
just  because  the  twilight  cast  a  phantom  at- 


®he  Eetnrn  of  the  Soul.  85 

mosphere  around  her !  I  held  her  in  my 
arms,  and  I  gazed  into  her  blue  eyes. 

She  looked  down,  but  still  smiled. 

"Where  have  you  been,  and  what  have 
you  been  doing  ? "  I  asked  gaily. 

She  answered  that  she  had  been  in  the 
drawing-room  since  tea-time. 

"  You  came  here  straight  from  the  draw- 
ing-room ? "  I  said. 

She  replied,  "  Yes.", 

Then,  with  an  indifferent  air  which  hid 
real  anxiety,  I  said : 

"  By  the  way,  Margot,  have  you  been  into 
that  room  again — the  room  you  fancied^  you 
recollected?" 

"  No,  never,"  she  answered,  withdrawing 
herself  from  my  arms.  "  I  don't  wish  to  go 
there.  Make  haste,  Ronald,  and  dress.  It 
is  nearly  dinner-time,  and  I  am  ready."  And 
she  turned  and  left  me. 

She  had  told  me  a  lie.  All  my  feelings 
of  uneasiness  and  discomfort  returned  ten- 
fold. 

That  evening  was  the  most  wretched  one, 
the  only  wretched  one,  I  had  ever  spent  with 
her. 

•  ••*•• 

I  am  tired  of  writing.  I  will  continue  my 
task  to-morrow.  It  takes  me  longer  than  I 


86  the  ttctnrn  of  tlje  Sonl. 

anticipated.  Yet  even  to  tell  everything  to 
myself  brings  me  some  comfort.  Man  must 
express  himself;  and  despair  must  find  a 
voice. 

III. 

THURSDAY  NIGHT,  December  ^th. 

THAT  lie  awoke  in  me  suspicion  of  the 
child  I  had  married.  I  began  to  doubt  her, 
yet  never  ceased  to  love  her.  She  had  all  my 
heart,  and  must  have  it  till  the  end.  But  the 
calm  of  love  was  to  be  succeeded  by  love's 
tumult  and  agony.  A  strangeness  was  creep- 
ing over  Margot.  It  was  as  if  she  took  a  thin 
veil  in  her  hands,  and  drew  it  over  and  all 
around  her,  till  the  outlines  I  had  known  were 
slightly  blurred.  Her  disposition,  which  had 
been  so  clear  cut,  so  sharply,  beautifully  de- 
fined, standing  out  in  its  innocent  glory  for 
all  men  to  see,  seemed  to  withdraw  itself,  as 
if  a  dawning  necessity  for  secrecy  had  arisen. 
A  thin  crust  of  reserve  began  to  subtly  over- 
spread her  every  act  and  expression.  She 
thought  now  before  she  spoke  ;  she  thought 
before  she  looked.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she 
was  becoming  a  slightly  different  person. 

The  change  I  mean  to  imply  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  describe.  It  was  not  abrupt  enough 
to  startle,  but  I  could  feel  it,  slight  though  it 


She  ttetnrn  of  tl)*  Soul.  87 

was.  Have  you  seen  the  first  flat  film  of 
waveless  water,  sent  by  the  incoming  tides 
of  the  sea,  crawling  silently  up  over  the 
wrinkled  brown  sand,  and  filling  the  tiny 
ruts,  till  diminutive  hills  and  valleys  are  all 
one  smooth  surface  ?  So  it  was  with  Margot. 
A  tide  flowed  over  her  character,  a  waveless 
tide  of  reserve.  The  hills  and  valleys  which 
I  loved  disappeared  from  my  ken.  Behind 
the  old  sweet  smile,  the  old  frank  expression, 
my  wife  was  shrinking  down  to  hide  herself, 
as  one  escaping  from  pursuit  hides  behind  a 
barrier.  When  one  human  being  knows  an- 
other very  intimately,  and  all  the  barricades 
that  divide  soul  from  soul  have  been  broken 
down,  it  is  difficult  to  set  them  up  again  with- 
out noise  and  dust,  and  the  sound  of  thrust- 
in  bolts,  and  the  tap  of  the  hammer  that 
drives  in  the  nails.  It  is  difficult,  but  not  im- 
possible. Barricades  can  be  raised  noiseless- 
ly, soundless  bolts — that  keep  out  the  soul- 
be  pushed  home.  The  black  gauze  veil  that 
blots  out  the  scene  drops,  and  when  it  is 
raised — if  ever — the  scene  is  changed. 

The  real  Margot  was  receding  from  me. 
I  felt  it  with  an  impotence  of  despair  that  was 
benumbing.  Yet  I  could  not  speak  of  it,  for 
at  first  I  could  hardly  tell  if  she  knew  of  what 
was  taking  place.  Indeed,  at  this  moment, 


88  ®|)e  tteturn  of  tlje  ScnJ. 

in  thinking  it  over,  I  do  not  believe  that  for 
some  time  she  had  any  definite  cognisance  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  growing  to  love  me  less 
passionately  than  of  old.  In  acts  she  was  not 
changed.  That  was  the  strange  part  of  the 
matter.  Her  kisses  were  warm,  but  I  be- 
lieved them  premeditated.  She  clasped  my 
hand  in  hers,  but  now  there  was  more  mech- 
anism than  magic  in  that  act  of  tenderness. 
Impulse  failed  within  her  ;  and  she  had  been 
all  impulse  ?  Did  she  know  it  ?  At  that  time 
I  wondered.  Believing  that  she  did  not  know 
she  was  changing,  I  was  at  the  greatest  pains 
to  guard  my  conduct,  lest  I  should  implant 
the  suspicion  that  might  hasten  what  I  feared. 
I  remained,  desperately,  the  same  as  ever,  and 
so,  of  course,  was  not  the  same,  for  a  deed 
done  defiantly  bears  little  resemblance  to  a 
deed  done  naturally.  I  was  always  consider- 
ing what  I  should  say,  how  I  should  act,  even 
how  I  should  look.  To  live  now  was  sedu- 
lous instead  of  easy.  Effort  took  the  place 
of  simplicity.  My  wife  and  I  were  gazing 
furtively  at  each  other  through  the  eye-holes 
of  masks.  I  knew  it.  Did  she  ? 

At  that  time  I  never  ceased  to  wonder. 
Of  one  thing  I  was  certain,  however — that 
Margot  began  to  devise  excuses  for  being 
left  alone.  When  we  first  came  home  she 


She  Beturn  of  th.e  Bonl.  89 

could  hardly  endure  me  out  of  her  sight. 
Now  she  grew  to  appreciate  solitude.  This 
was  a  terrible  danger  signal,  and  I  could  not 
fail  to  so  regard  it. 

Yet  something  within  me  held  me  back 
from  speaking  out.  I  made  no  comment  on 
the  change  that  deepened  day  by  day,  but  I 
watched  my  wife  furtively,  with  a  concentra- 
tion of  attention  that  sometimes  left  me  phys- 
ically exhausted.  I  felt,  too,  at  length,  that 
I  was  growing  morbid,  that  suspicion  coloured 
my  mind  and  caused  me,  perhaps,  to  put  a 
wrong  interpretation  on  many  of  her  actions, 
to  exaggerate  and  misconstrue  the  most  sim- 
ple things  she  did.  I  began  to  believe  her 
every  look  premeditated.  Even  if  she  kissed 
me,  I  thought  she  did  it  with  a  purpose;  if 
she  smiled  up  at  me  as  of  old,  I  fancied  the 
smile  to  be  only  a  concealment  of  its  oppo- 
site. By  degrees  we  became  shy  of  each 
other.  We  were  like  uncongenial  intimates, 
forced  to  occupy  the  same  house,  forced  into 
a  fearful  knowledge  of  each  other's  personal 
habits,  while  we  knew  nothing  of  the  thoughts 
that  make  up  the  true  lives  of  individuals. 

And  then  another  incident  occurred,  a 
pendant  to  the  incident  of  Margot's  strange 
denied  visit  to  the  room  she  affected  to  fear. 
It  was  one  night,  one  deep  dark  night  of  the 


90  (Jhe  Eettxrn  of  tlje  Soul. 

autumn — a  season  to  affect  even  a  cheerful 
mind  and  incline  it  towards  melancholy. 
Margot  and  I  were  now  often  silent  when  we 
were  together.  That  evening,  towards  nine, 
a  dull  steady  rain  set  in.  I  remember  I  heard 
it  on  the  window-panes  as  we  satin  the  draw- 
ing-room after  dinner,  and  remarked  on  it, 
saying  to  her  that  if  it  continued  for  two  or 
three  days  she  might  chance  to  see  the  floods 
out,  and  that  fishermen  would  descend  upon 
us  by  the  score. 

I  did  not  obtain  much  response  from  her. 
The  dreariness  of  the  weather  seemed  to 
affect  her  spirits.  She  took  up  a  book  pres- 
ently, and  appeared  to  read ;  but,  once  in 
glancing  up  suddenly  from  my  newspaper,  I 
thought  I  caught  her  gaze  fixed  fearfully 
upon  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was 
looking  furtively  at  me  with  an  absolute 
terror.  I  was  so  much  affected  that  I  made 
some  excuse  for  leaving  the  room,  went  down 
to  my  den,  lit  a  cigar,  and  walked  uneasily 
up  and  down,  listening  to  the  rain  on  the  win- 
dow. At  ten  Margot  came  in  to  tell  me  she 
was  going  to  bed.  I  wished  her  good-night 
tenderly,  but  as  I  held  her  slim  body  a  mo- 
ment in  my  arms  I  felt  that  she  began  to 
tremble.  I  let  her  go,  and  she  slipped  from 
the  room  with  the  soft,  cushioned  step  that 


GTh.e  ftetnrn  of  ih.e  Soul.  91 

was  habitual  with  her.  And,  strangely  enough, 
my  thoughts  recurred  to  the  day,  long  ago, 
when  I  first  held  the  great  white  cat  on  my 
knees,  and  felt  its  body  shrink  from  my  touch 
with  a  nameless  horror.  The  uneasy  move- 
ment of  the  woman  recalled  to  me  so  strong- 
ly and  so  strangely  the  uneasy  movement  of 
the  animal. 

I  lit  a  second  cigar.  It  was  near  midnight 
when  it  was  smoked  out,  and  I  turned  down 
the  lamp  and  went  softly  up  to  bed.  I  un- 
dressed in  the  room  adjoining  my  wife's,  and 
then  stole  into  hers.  She  was  sleeping  in  the 
wide  white  bed  rather  uneasily,  and  as  I 
leaned  over  her,  shading  the  candle  flame 
with  my  outspread  hand,  she  muttered  some 
broken  words  that  I  could  not  catch.  I  had 
never  heard  her  talk  in  her  dreams  before.  I 
lay  down  gently  at  her  side  and  extinguished 
the  candle. 

But  sleep  did  not  come  to  me.  The  dull, 
dead  silence  weighed  upon  instead  of  sooth- 
ing me.  My  mind  was  terribly  alive,  in  a 
ferment ;  and  the  contrast  between  my  own 
excitement  and  the  hushed  peace  of  my  en- 
vironment was  painful,  was  almost  unbeara- 
ble. I  wished  that  a  wind  from  the  mountains 
were  beating  against  the  window-panes,  and 
the  rain  lashing  the  house  in  fury.  The  black 
7 


Eeturn  of  the  0onl. 


calm  around  was  horrible,  unnatural.  The 
drizzling  rain  was  now  so  small  that  I  could 
not  even  hear  its  patter  when  I  strained  my 
ears.  Margot  had  ceased  to  mutter,  and  lay 
perfectly  still.  How  I  longed  to  be  able  to 
read  the  soul  hidden  in  her  sleeping  body,  to 
unravel  the  mystery  of  the  mind  which  I  had 
once  understood  so  perfectly  !  It  is  so  hor- 
rible that  we  can  never  open  the  human  en- 
velope, take  out  the  letter,  and  seize  with  our 
eyes  upon  its  every  word.  Margot  slept  with 
all  her  secrets  safeguarded,  although  she  was 
unconscious,  no  longer  watchful,  on  the  alert. 
She  was  so  silent,  even  her  quiet  breathing 
not  reaching  my  ear,  that  I  felt  impelled  to 
stretch  out  my  hand  beneath  the  coverlet  and 
touch  hers  ever  so  softly.  I  did  so. 

Her  hand  was  instantly  and  silently  with- 
drawn. She  was  awake,  then. 

"  Margot,"  I  said,  "did  I  disturb  you  ?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  movement,  followed  by  the  silence, 
affected  me  very  disagreeably. 

I  lit  the  candle  and  looked  at  her.  She 
was  lying  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bed, 
with  her  blue  eyes  closed.  Her  lips  were 
slightly  parted.  I  could  hear  her  steady 
breathing.  Yet  was  she  really  sleeping  ? 

I  bent  lower  over  her,  and  as  I  did  so  a 


Eetnrn  of  the  Qonl.  93 


slight,  involuntary  movement,  akin  to  what 
we  call  a  shudder,  ran  through  her  body.  I 
recoiled  from  the  bed.  An  impotent  anger 
seized  me.  Could  it  be  that  my  presence  was 
becoming  so  hateful  to  my  wife  that  even  in 
sleep  her  body  trembled  when  I  drew  near  it  ? 
Or  was  this  slumber  feigned  ?  I  could  not 
tell,  but  I  felt  it  impossible  at  that  moment 
to  remain  in  the  room.  I  returned  to  my  own, 
dressed,  and  descended  the  stairs  to  the  door 
opening  on  to  the  terrace.  I  felt  a  longing 
to  be  out  in  the  air.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
house  was  stifling. 

Was  it  coming  to  this,  then  ?  Did  I,  a 
man,  shrink  with  a  fantastic  cowardice  from 
a  woman  I  loved  ?  The  latent  cruelty  began 
to  stir  within  me,  the  tyrant  spirit  which  a 
strong  love  sometimes  evokes.  I  had  been 
Margot's  slave  almost.  My  affection  had 
brought  me  to  her  feet,  had  kept  me  there. 
So  long  as  she  loved  me  I  was  content  to  be 
her  captive,  knowing  she  was  mine.  But  a 
change  in  her  attitude  toward  me  might 
rouse  the  master.  In  my  nature  there  was  a 
certain  brutality,  a  savagery,  which  I  had 
never  wholly  slain,  although  Margot  had 
softened  me  wonderfully  by  her  softness,  had 
brought  me  to  gentleness  by  her  tenderness. 
The  boy  of  years  ago  had  developed  toward 


94  ff IK  Ucturn  of  tl)c  Soul. 

better  things,  but  he  was  not  dead  in  me.  I 
felt  that  as  I  walked  up  and  down  the  terrace 
through  the  night  in  a  wild  meditation.  If 
my  love  could  not  hold  Margot,  my  strength 
should. 

I  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  the  wet  night 
air,  and  I  opened  my  shoulders  as  if  shaking 
off  an  oppression.  My  passion  for  Margot 
had  not  yetjdrawn  me  down  to  weakness ;  it 
had  raised  me  up  to  strength.  The  faint  fear 
of  her,  which  I  had  felt  almost  without  know- 
ing it  more  than  once,  died  within  me.  The 
desire  of  the  conqueror  elevated  me.  There 
was  something  for  me  to  win.  My  paralysis 
passed  away,  and  I  turned  toward  the  house. 

And  now  a  strange  thing  happened.  I 
walked  into  the  dark  hall,  closed  the  outer 
door,  shutting  out  the  dull  murmur  of  the 
night,  and  felt  in  my  pocket  for  my  match- 
box. It  was  not  there.  I  must  inadvertently 
have  laid  it  down  in  my  dressing-room  and 
left  it.  I  searched  about  in  the  darkness  on 
the  hall  table,  but  could  find  no  light.  There 
was  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  feel  my  way 
upstairs  as  best  I  could. 

I  started,  keeping  my  hand  against  the 
wall  to  guide  me.  I  gained  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and  began  to  traverse  the  landing, 
still  with  my  hand  upon  the  wall.  To  reach 


She  Ueturn  of  the  Soul.  95 

my  dressing-room  I  had  to  pass  the  apart- 
ment which  had  been  my  grandmother's  sit- 
ting-room. 

When  I  reached  it,  instead  of  sliding  along 
a  closed  door,  as  I  had  anticipated,  my  hand 
dropped  into  vacancy. 

The  door  was  wide  open.  It  had  been 
shut,  like  all  the  other  doors  in  the  house, 
when  I  had  descended  the  stairs — shut  and 
locked,  as  it  always  was  at  night-time.  Why 
was  it  open  now  ? 

I  paused  in  the  darkness.  And  then  an 
impulse  seized  me  to  walk  forward  into  the 
room.  I  advanced  a  step ;  but,  as  I  did  so,  a 
horrible  low  cry  broke  upon  my  ears  out  of 
the  darkness.  It  came  from  immediately  in 
front  of  me,  and  sounded  like  an  expression 
of  the  most  abject  fear. 

My  feet  rooted  themselves  to  the  ground. 

"Who's  there  ?"  I  asked. 

There  came  no  answer. 

I  listened  for  a  moment,  but  did  not  hear 
the  minutest  sound.  The  desire  for  light  was 
overpowering.  I  generally  did  my  writing  in 
this  room,  and  knew  the  exact  whereabouts  of 
everything  in  it.  I  knew  that  on  the  writing- 
table  there  was  a  silver  box  containing  wax 
matches.  It  lay  on  the  left  of  my  desk.  I 
moved  another  step  forward. 


96  ®l)c  Bctnrn  of  tlje  8onl. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  slight  rustle,  as 
if  someone  shrank  back  as  I  advanced. 

I  laid  my  hand  quickly  on  the  box,  opened 
it,  and  struck  a  light.  The  room  was  vague- 
ly illuminated.  I  saw  something  white  at 
the  far  end,  against  the  wall.  I  put  the 
match  to  a  candle. 

The  white  thing  was  Margot.  She  was 
in  her  dressing-gown,  and  was  crouched  up 
in  an  angle  of  the  wall  as  far  away  from 
where  I  stood  as  possible.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  wide  open,  and  fixed  upon  me  with  an 
expression  of  such  intense  and  hideous  fear 
in  them  that  I  almost  cried  out. 

"  Margot,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  I  said. 
"Are  you  ill  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply.  Her  face  terrified 
me. 

"  What  is  it,  Margot  ?  "  I  cried  in  a  loud, 
almost  harsh  voice,  determined  to  rouse  her 
from  this  horrible,  unnatural  silence.  "  What 
are  you  doing  here  ? " 

I  moved  towards  her.  I  stretched  out  my 
hands  and  seized  her.  As  I  did  so,  a  sort  of 
sob  burst  from  her.  Her  hands  were  cold 
and  trembling. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  has  frightened  you  ? " 
I  reiterated. 

At  last  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 


Betnrn  of  ll)e  Sonl.  97 


"  You  —  you  looked  so  strange,  so  —  so 
cruel  as  you  came  in,"  she  said. 

"Strange!  Cruel!  But  you  could  not 
see  me.  It  was  dark,"  I  answered. 

"  Dark  !  "  she  said. 

"Yes,  until  I  lit  the  candle.  And  you 
cried  out  when  I  was  only  in  the  doorway. 
You  could  not  see  me  there." 

"  Why  not  ?  What  has  that  got  to  do 
with  it?"  she  murmured,  still  trembling  vio- 
lently. 

"You  can  see  me  in  the  dark  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand what  you  mean.  Of  course  I  can  see 
you  when  you,  are  there  before  my  eyes." 

"But  -  "  I  began;  and  then  her  ob- 
vious and  complete  surprise  at  my  questions 
stopped  them.  I  still  held  her  hands  in 
mine,  and  their  extreme  coldness  roused  me 
to  the  remembrance  that  she  was  un- 
clothed. 

"  You  will  be  ill  if  you  stay  here,"  I  said. 
"Come  back  to  your  room." 

She  said  nothing,  and  I  led  her  back, 
waited  while  she  got  into  bed,  and  then, 
placing  the  candle  on  the  dressing-table,  sat 
down  in  a  chair  by  her  side. 

The  strong  determination  to  take  prompt 
action,  to  come  to  an  explanation,  to  end 


98  ®he  Beturn  of  tfye  Soul. 

these  dreary  mysteries  of  mind  and  conduct, 
was  still  upon  me. 

I  did  not  think  of  the  strange  hour;  I 
did  not  care  that  the  night  was  gliding  on 
towards  dawn.  I  was  self-absorbed.  I  was 
beyond  ordinary  considerations. 

Yet  I  did  not  speak  immediately.  I  was 
trying  to  be  quite  calm,  trying  to  think  of 
the  best  line  for  me  to  take.  So  much  might 
depend  upon  our  mere  words  now.  At 
length  I  said,  laying  my  hand  upon  hers, 
which  was  outside  the  coverlet : 

"  Margot,  what  were  you  doing  in  that 
room  at  such  a  strange  hour  ?  Why  were  you 
there  ?  " 

She  hesitated  obviously.  Then  she  an- 
swered, not  looking  at  me  : 

"  I  missed  you.  I  thought  you  might  be 
there — writing." 

"  But  you  were  in  the  dark." 

"I  thought  you  would  have  a  light." 

I  knew  by  her  manner  that  she  was  not 
telling  me  the  truth,  but  I  went  on  quietly : 

"  If  you  expected  me,  why  did  you  cry  out 
when  I  came  to  the  door  ?  " 

She  tried  to  draw  her  hand  away,  but  I 
held  it  fast,  closing  my  fingers  upon  it  with 
even  brutal  strength. 

"  Why  did  you  cry  out  ?  " 


®he  Betarn  of  tfye  Sonl.  99 

"  You — you  looked  so  strange,  so  cruel." 

"So  cruel!" 

"Yes.  You  frightened  me — you  frightened 
me  horribly." 

She  began  suddenly  to  sob,  like  one  com- 
pletely overstrained.  I  lifted  her  up  in  the 
bed,  put  my  arms  round  her,  and  made  her 
lean  against  me.  I  was  strangely  moved. 

"  I  frightened  you  !  How  can  that  be  ? " 
I  said,  trying  to  control  a  passion  of  mingled 
love  and  anger  that  filled  my  breast.  "You 
know  that  I  love  you.  You  must  know  that. 
In  all  our  short  married  life  have  I  ever  been 
even  momentarily  unkind  to  you  ?  Let  us 
be  frank  with  one  another.  Our  lives  have 
changed  lately.  One  of  us  has  altered.  You 
cannot  say  that  it  is  I." 

She  only  continued  to  sob  bitterly  in  my 
arms.  I  held  her  closer. 

"  Let  us  be  frank  with  one  another,"  I 
went  on.  "  For  God's  sake  let  us  have  no 
barriers  between  us.  Margot,  look  into  my 
eyes  and  tell  me — are  you  growing  tired  of. 
me?" 

She  turned  her  head  away,  but  I  spoke 
more  sternly : 

"  You  shall  be  truthful.  I  will  have  no 
more  subterfuge.  Look  me  in  the  face.  You 
did  love  me  once  ?  " 


ioo          ®he  Eelnrn  of  the  Sonl. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered  in  a  choked 
voice. 

"What  have  I  done,  then,  to  alienate  you  ? 
Have  I  ever  hurt  you,  ever  shown  a  lack  of 
sympathy,  ever  neglected  you  ?  " 

"  Never — never." 

"  Yet  you  have  changed  to  me  since — 

since "  I  paused  a  moment,  trying  to 

recall  when  I  had  first  noticed  her  altered 
demeanour. 

She  interrupted  me. 

"  It  has  all  come  upon  me  in  this  house," 
she  sobbed.  <k  Oh  !  what  is  it  ?  What  does 
it  all  mean  ?  If  I  could  understand  a  little — 
only  a  little — it  would  not  be  so  bad.  But 
this  nightmare,  this  thing  that  seems  such  a 
madness  of  the  intellect " 

Her  voice  broke  and  ceased.  Her  tears 
burst  forth  afresh.  Such  mingled  fear,  pas- 
sion, and  a  sort  of  strange  latent  irritation,  I 
had  never  seen  before. 

"  It  is  a  madness  indeed,"  I  said,  and  a 
sense  almost  of  outrage  made  my  voice  hard 
and  cold.  "  I  have  not  deserved  such  treat- 
ment at  your  hands." 

"  I  will  not  yield  to  it,"  she  said,  with  a 
sort  of  desperation,  suddenly  throwing  her 
arms  around  me.  "  I  will  not — I  will  not !  " 

I  was  strangely  puzzled.     I  was  torn  with 


ftetnrn  0f  the  0onl.          101 


conflicting  feelings.  Love  and  anger  grap- 
pled at  my  heart.  But  I  only  held  her,  and 
did  not  speak  until  she  grew  obviously 
calmer.  The  paroxysm  seemed  passing 
away.  Then  I  said  : 

"  I  cannot  understand." 

"  Nor  I,"  she  answered,  with  a  directness 
that  had  been  foreign  to  her  of  late,  but 
that  was  part  and  parcel  of  her  real,  beauti- 
ful nature.  "  I  cannot  understand.  I  only 
know  there  is  a  change  in  me,  or  in  you  to 
me,  and  that  I  cannot  help  it,  or  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  help  it.  Sometimes  I  feel  — 
do  not  be  angry,  I  will  try  to  tell  you  —  a 
physical  fear  of  you,  of  your  touch,  of  your 
clasp,  a  fear  such  as  an  animal  might  feel 
towards  the  master  who  had  beaten  it.  I 
tremble  then  at  your  approach.  When  you 
are  near  me  I  feel  cold,  oh  !  so  cold  and  — 
and  anxious  ;  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  appre- 
hensive. Oh,  I  am  hurting  you  !  " 

I  suppose  I  must  have  winced  at  her 
words,  and  she  is  quick  to  observe. 

"  Go  on,"  I  said  ;  "  do  not  spare  me.  Tell 
me  everything.  It  is  madness  indeed  ;  but 
we  may  kill  it,  when  we  both  know  it." 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  poign- 
ancy which  was  heart-breaking  to  hear. 
"  If  we  could  !  " 


102          QTlje  ttetnrn  of  the  Soul. 

"  Do  you  doubt  our  ability  ?  "  I  said,  try- 
ing to  be  patient  and  calm.  "You  are  un- 
reasoning, like  all  women.  Be  sensible  for  a 
moment.  You  do  me  a  wrong  in  cherishing 
these  feelings.  I  have  the  capacity  for  cruel- 
ty in  me.  I  may  have  been — I  have  been 
— cruel  in  the  past,  but  never  to  you.  You 
have  no  right  to  treat  me  as  you  have  done 
lately.  If  you  examine  your  feelings,  and 
compare  them  with  facts,  you  will  see  their 
absurdity." 

"  But,"  she  interposed,  with  a  woman's 
fatal  quickness,  "  that  will  not  do  away  with 
their  reality." 

"  It  must.  Look  into  their  faces  until 
they  fade  like  ghosts,  seen  only  between  light 
and  darkness.  They  are  founded  upon 
nothing ;  they  are  bred  without  father  or 
mother  ;  they  are  hysterical ;  they  are  wicked. 
Think  a  little  of  me.  You  are  not  going  to 
be  conquered  by  a  chimera,  to  allow  a  phan- 
tom created  by  your  imagination  to  ruin  the 
happiness  that  has  been  so  beautiful.  You 
will  not  do  that !  You  dare  not !  " 

She  only  answered  : 

"  If  I  can  help  it." 

A  passionate  anger  seized  me,  a  fury  at 
my  impotence  against  this  child.  I  pushed 
her  almost  roughly  from  my  arms. 


Hetnrn  0f  tlje  Soul.          103 


"And  I  have  married  this  woman!"  I 
cried  bitterly.  I  got  up. 

Margot  had  ceased  crying  now,  and  her 
face  was  very  white  and  calm  ;  it  looked 
rigid  in  the  faint  candle-light  that  shone 
across  the  bed. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  she  said.  "  We  are 
controlled  by  something  inside  of  us;  there 
are  powers  in  us  that  we  cannot  fight 
against." 

"  There  is  nothing  we  cannot  fight 
against,"  I  said  passionately.  "The  doc- 
trine of  predestination  is  the  devil's  own  doc- 
trine. It  is  the  doctrine  set  up  by  the  sinner 
to  excuse  his  sin  ;  it  is  the  coward's  doctrine. 
Understand  me,  Margot,  1  love  you,  but  I 
am  not  a  weak  fool.  '  There  must  be  an  end 
of  this  folly.  Perhaps  you  are  playing  with 
me,  acting  like  a  girl,  testing  me.  Let  us 
have  no  more  of  it." 

She  said  : 

"  I  only  do  what  I  must." 

Her  tone  turned  me  cold.  Her  set  face 
frightened  me,  and  angered  me,  for  there  was 
a  curious  obstinacy  in  it.  I  left  the  room 
abruptly,  and  did  not  return.  That  night  I 
had  no  sleep. 

I  am  not  a  coward,  but  I  find  that  I  am 
inclined  to  fear  that  which  fears  me.  I  dread 


104          ®l)e  Hetnrtt  0f  the  6onl. 

an  animal  that  always  avoids  me  silently 
more  than  an  animal  that  actually  attacks 
me.  The  thing  that  runs  from  me  makes  me 
shiver,  the  thing  that  creeps  away  when  I 
come  near  wakes  my  uneasiness.  At  this 
time  there  rose  up  in  me  a  strange  feeling 
towards  Margot.  The  white,  fair  child  I  had 
married  was  at  moments — only  at  moments — 
horrible  to  me.  I  felt  disposed  to  shun  her. 
Something  within  cried  out  against  her. 
Long  ago,  at  the  instant  of  our  introduction, 
an  unreasoning  sensation  that  could  only  be 
called  dread  had  laid  hold,  upon  me.  That 
dread  returned  from  the  night  of  our  expla- 
nation, returned  deepened  and  added  to.  It 
prompted  me  to  a  suggestion  which  I  had  no 
sooner  made  than  I  regretted  it.  On  the 
morning  following  I  told  Margot  that  in  fu- 
ture we  had  better  occupy  separate  rooms. 
She  assented  quietly,  but  I  thought  a  furtive 
expression  of  relief  stole  for  a  moment  into 
her  face. 

I  was  deeply  angered  with  her  and  with 
myself ;  yet,  now  that  I  knew  beyond  ques- 
tion my  wife's  physical  terror  of  me,  I  was 
half  afraid  of  her.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  lie  long  hours  by  her  side  in 
the  darkness,  by  the  side  of  a  woman  who 
was  shrinking  from  me,  who  was  watching 


(Ehe  ftetnrn  0f  tlje  Sonl.          105 

me  when  I  could  not  see  her.  The  idea  made 
my  very  flesh  creep. 

Yet  I  hated  myself  for  this  shrinking  of 
the  body,  and  sometimes  hated  her  for  rous- 
ing it.  A  hideous  struggle  was  going  on 
within  me — a  struggle  between  love  and  im- 
potent anger  and  despair,  between  the  lover 
and  the  master.  For  I  am  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  men  who  think  that  a  husband  ought 
to  be  master  of  his  wife  as  well  as  of  his  house. 

How  could  I  be  master  of  a  woman  I  se- 
cretly feared  ?  My  knowledge  of  myself 
spurred  me  through  acute  irritation  almost 
to  the  verge  of  madness. 

All  calm  was  gone.  I  was  alternately 
gentle  to  my  wife  and  almost  ferocious 
towards  her,  ready  to  fall  at  her  feet  and 
worship  her  or  to  seize  her  and  treat  her  with 
physical  violence.  I  only  restrained  myself 
by  an  effort. 

My  variations  of  manner  did  not  seem  to 
affect  her.  Indeed,  it  sometimes  struck  me 
that  she  feared  me  more  when  I  was  kind  to 
her  than  when  I  was  harsh. 

And  I  knew,  by  a  thousand  furtive  indica- 
tions, that  her  horror  of  me  was  deepening 
day  by  day.  I  believe  she  could  hardly  bring 
herself  to  be  in  a  room  alone  with  me,  espe- 
cially after  nightfall. 


io6          ®l)e  Hetnrn  of  llje  Soul. 


One  evening,  when  we  were  dining,  the 
butler,  after  placing  dessert  upon  the  table, 
moved  to  leave  us.  She  turned  white,  and, 
as  he  reached  the  door,  half  rose,  and  called 
him  back  in  a  sharp  voice. 

"  Symonds  !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ?  " 

"You  are  going?" 

The  fellow  looked  surprised. 

"  Can  I  get  you  anything,  ma'am  ?  " 

She  glanced  at  me  with  an  indescribable 
uneasiness.  Then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
with  an  effort,  and  pressed  her  lips  together. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

As  the  man  went  out  and  shut  the  door, 
she  looked  at  me  again  from  under  her  eye- 
lids; and  finally  her  eyes  travelled  from  me 
to  a  small,  thin-bladed  knife,  used  for  cutting 
oranges,  that  lay  near  her  plate,  and  fixed 
themselves  on  it.  She  put  out  her  hand 
stealthily,  drew  it  towards  her,  and  kept  her 
hand  over  it  on  the  table.  I  took  an  orange 
from  a  dish  in  front  of  me. 

"  Margot,"  I  said,  "  will  you  pass  me  that 
fruit-knife  ?" 

She  obviously  hesitated. 

"Give  me  that  knife,"  I  repeated  roughly, 
stretching  out  my  hand. 

She  lifted  her  hand,  left  the  knife  upon 


Hetnrn  of  the  Soul.          107 


the  table,  and  at  the  same  time,  springing  up, 
glided  softly  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her. 

That  evening  I  spent  alone  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, and,  for  the  first  time,  she  did  not 
come  to  bid  me  good-night. 

I  sat  smoking  my  cigar  in  a  tumult  of 
furious  despair  and  love.  The  situation  was 
becoming  intolerable.  It  could  not  be  en- 
dured. I  longed  for  a  crisis,  even  for  a  vio- 
lent one.  I  could  have  cried  aloud  that  night 
for  a  veritable  tragedy.  There  were  moments 
when  I  would  almost  have  killed  the  child 
who  mysteriously  eluded  and  defied  me.  I 
could  have  wreaked  a  cruel  vengeance  upon 
the  body  for  the  sin  of  the  mind.  I  was  ter- 
ribly, mortally  distressed. 

After  a  long  and  painful  self-communion, 
I  resolved  to  make  another  wild  effort  to  set 
things  right  before  it  was  too  late;  and  when 
the  clock  chimed  the  half-hour  after  ten  I 
went  upstairs  softly  to  her  bedroom  and 
turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  meaning  to 
enter,  to  catch  Margot  in  my  arms,  tell  her 
how  deep  my  love  for  her  was,  how  she  in- 
jured me  by  her  base  fears,  and  how  she  was 
driving  me  back  from  the  gentleness  she  had 
given  me  to  the  cruelty,  to  the  brutality,  of 
my  first  nature. 
8 


io8          ®he  ttclnrn  of  the  Soul. 

The  door  resisted  me:  it  was  locked. 
I  paused  a  moment,  and  then  tapped  gen- 
tly. I  heard  a  sudden  rustle  within,  as  if 
someone  hurried  across  the  floor  away  from 
the  door,  and  then  Margot's  voice  cried 
sharply : 

"  Who's  that  ?    Who  is  there  ? " 
"  Margot,  it  is  I.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you 
— to  say  good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 
"  But  let  me  in  for  a  moment." 
There  was  a  silence — it  seemed  to  me  a 
long  one;  then  she  answered  : 

"  Not  now,  dear ;  I — I  am  so  tired." 
"  Open  the  door  for  a  moment." 
"  I  am  very  tired.  Good-night." 
The  cold,  level  tone  of  her  voice — for  the 
anxiety  had  left  it  after  that  first  sudden  cry 
— roused  me  to  a  sudden  fury  of  action.  I 
seized  the  handle  of  the  door  and  pressed 
with  all  my  strength.  Physically  I  am  a  very 
powerful  man — my  anger  and  despair  gave 
me  a  giant's  might.  I  burst  the  lock,  and 
sprang  into  the  room.  My  impulse  was  to 
seize  Margot  in  my  arms  and  crush  her  to 
death,  it  might  be,  in  an  embrace  she  could 
not  struggle  against.  The  blood  coursed  like 
molten  fire  through  my  veins.  The  lust  of 
love,  the  lust  of  murder  even,  perhaps,  was 


fteturn  of  the  Soul.          109 


upon  me.  I  sprang  impetuously  into  the 
room. 

No  candles  were  alight  in  it.  The  blinds 
were  up,  and  the  chill  moonbeams  filtered 
through  the  small  lattice  panes.  By  the  far- 
thest window,  in  the  yellowish  radiance,  was 
huddled  a  white  thing. 

A  sudden  cold  took  hold  upon  me.  All 
the  warmth  in  me  froze  up. 

I  stopped  where  I  was  and  held  my 
breath. 

That  white  thing,  seen  thus  uncertainly, 
had  no  semblance  to  humanity.  It  was  ani- 
mal wholly.  I  could  have  believed  for  the 
moment  that  a  white  cat  crouched  from  me 
there  by  the  curtain,  waiting  to  spring. 

What  a  strange  illusion  that  was  !  I  tried 
to  laugh  at  it  afterwards,  but  at  the  moment 
horror  stole  through  me  —  horror,  and  al- 
most awe. 

All  desire  of  violence  left  me.  Heat  was 
dead;  I  felt  cold  as  stone.  I  could  not  even 
speak  a  word. 

Suddenly  the  white  thing  moved.  The 
curtain  was  drawn  sharply  ;  the  moonlight 
was  blotted  out;  the  room  was  plunged  in 
darkness  —  a  darkness  in  which  that  thing 
could  see  ! 

I  turned  and  stole  out  of  the  room.     I 


no         ®he  JUturn  of  ll)c  Soul. 

could  have  fled,  driven  by  the  nameless  fear 
that  was  upon  me. 

Only  when  the  morning  dawned  did  the 
man  in  me  awake,  and  I  cursed  myself  for 
my  cowardice. 

The  following  evening  we  were  asked  to 
dine  out  with  some  neighbours,  who  lived  a 
few  miles  off  in  a  wonderful  old  Norman 
castle  near  the  sea.  During  the  day  neither 
of  us  had  made  the  slightest  allusion  to  the 
incidents  of  the  previous  night.  We  both 
felt  it  a  relief  to  go  into  society,  I  think. 
The  friends  to  whom  we  went — Lord  and 
Lady  Melchester — had  a  large  party  staying 
with  them,  and  we  were,  I  believe,  the  only 
outsiders  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood. 
One  of  their  guests  was  Professor  Black, 
whose  name  I  have  already  mentioned — a 
little,  dry,  thin,  acrid  man,  with  thick  black 
hair,  innocent  of  the  comb,  and  pursed, 
straight  lips.  I  had  met  him  two  or  three 
times  in  London,  and  as  he  had  only  just 
arrived  at  the  castle,  and  scarcely  knew  his 
fellow-visitors  there,  he  brought  his  wine 
over  to  me  when  the  ladies  left  the  dining- 
room,  and  entered  into  conversation.  At  the 
moment  I  was  glad,  but  before  we  followed 
the  women  I  would  have  given  a  year — I 


®l)e  Beturn  of  tfje  Sonl.          m 

might  say  years — of  my  life  not  to  have 
spoken  to  him,  not  to  have  heard  him  speak 
that  night. 

How  did  we  drift  into  that  fatal  conver- 
sation ?  I  hardly  remember.  We  talked  first 
of  the  neighbourhood,  then  swayed  away  to 
books,  then  to  people.  Yes,  that  was  how  it 
came  about.  The  Professor  was  speaking  of 
a  man  whom  we  both  knew  in  town,  a  curi- 
ously effeminate  man,  whose  every  thought 
and  feeling  seemed  that  of  a  woman.  I  said 
I  disliked  him,  and  condemned  him  'for  his 
woman's  demeanour,  his  woman's  mind;  but 
the  Professor  thereupon  joined  issue  with 
me. 

"  Pity  the  fellow,  if  you  like,"  he  uttered, 
in  his  rather  strident  voice ;  "  but  as  to  con- 
demning him,  I  would  as  soon  condemn  a 
tadpole  for  not  being  a  full-grown  frog.  His 
soul  is  beyond  his  power  to  manage,  or  even 
to  coerce,  you  may  depend  upon  it." 

Having  sipped  his  port,  he  drew  a  little 
nearer  to  me,  and  slightly  dropped  his  voice. 

"  There  would  be  less  censure  of  individu- 
als in  this  world,"  he  said,  "  if  people  were 
only  a  little  more  thoughtful.  These  souls 
are  like  letters,  and  sometimes  they  are  sealed 
up  in  the  wrong  envelope.  For  instance,  a 
man's  soul  may  be  put  into  a  woman's  body, 


Hetnrn  of  the  Boul. 


or  vice  versd.  It  has  been  so  in  D  -  's  case. 
A  mistake  has  been  made." 

"By  Providence?"  I  interrupted,  with, 
perhaps,  just  a  sotipfon  of  sarcasm  in  my 
voice. 

The  Professor  smiled. 

"Suppose  we  imitate  Thomas  Hardy,  and 
say  by  the  President  of  the  Immortals,  who 
makes  sport  with  more  humans  than  Tess," 
he  answered.  "  Mistakes  may  be  deliber- 
ate, just  as  their  reverse  may  be  acci- 
dental. Even  a  mighty  power  may  conde- 
scend sometimes  to  a  very  practical  joke. 
To  a  thinker  the  world  is  full  of  apple-pie 
beds,  and  cold  wet  sponges  fall  on  us  from 
at  least  half  the  doors  we  push  open.  The 
soul-juggleries  of  the  before-mentioned  Presi- 
dent are  very  curious,  but  people  will  not 
realize  that  soul  transference  from  body  to 
body  is  as  much  a  plain  fact  as  the  daily  ris- 
ing of  the  sun  on  one  half  of  the  world  and 
its  nightly  setting  on  the  other." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  souls  pass  on  into  the 
world  again  on  the  death  of  the  particular 
body  in  which  they  have  been  for  the  mo- 
ment confined?"  I  asked. 

"  Precisely  :  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  Some- 
times a  woman's  soul  goes  into  a  man's  body  ; 
then  the  man  acts  woman,  and  people  cry 


fcetnrn  of  the  Soni.          113 


against  him  for  effeminacy.  The  soul  col- 
ours the  body  with  actions,  the  body  does 
not  colour  the  soul,  or  not  in  the  same  de- 
gree." 

"  But  we  are  not  irresponsible.  We  can 
command  ourselves." 

The  Professor  smiled  dryly. 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  sometimes 
doubt  it." 

"And  I  doubt  your  theory  of  soul  trans- 
ference." 

"  That  shows  me  —  pardon  the  apparent 
impertinence  —  that  you  have  never  really  ex- 
amined the  soul  question  with  any  close  at- 
tention. Do  you  suppose  that  D  -  really 
likes  being  so  noticeably  different  from  other 
men  ?  Depend  upon  it,  he  has  noticed  in 
himself  what  we  have  noticed  in  him.  De- 
pend upon  it,  he  has  tried  to  be  ordinary,  and 
found  it  impossible.  His  soul  manages  him 
as  a  strong  nature  manages  a  weak  one,  and 
his  soul  is  a  female,  not  a  male.  For  souls 
have  sexes,  otherwise  what  would  be  the 
sense  of  talking  about  wedded  souls  ?  I  have 
no  doubt  whatever  of  the  truth  of  reincarna- 
tion on  earth.  Souls  go  on  and  on  following 
out  their  object  of  development." 

"  You  believe  that  every  soul  is  reincar- 
nated ?  " 


ii4          ®he  Bclnrn  of  the  00nl. 

"  A  certain  number  of  times." 

"  That  even  in  the  animal  world  the  soul 
of  one  animal  passes  into  the  body  of  an- 
other ?  " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Now  we  are  coming  to 
something  that  tends  to  prove  my  theory 
true.  Animals  have  souls,  as  you  imply. 
Who  can  know  them  intimately  and  doubt  it 
for  an  instant  ?  Souls  as  immortal — or  as 
mortal — as  ours.  And  their  souls,  too,  pass 
on." 

"  Into  other  animals  ?  " 

"  Possibly.  And  eventually,  in  the  pro- 
cess of  development,  into  human  beings." 

I  laughed,  perhaps  a  little  rudely.  "  My 
dear  Professor,  I  thought  that  old  notion  was 
quite  exploded  in  these  modern  scientific 
days." 

"  I  found  my  beliefs  upon  my  own  minute 
observations,"  he  said  rather  frigidly.  "  I 
notice  certain  animals  masquerading — to 
some  extent — as  human  beings,  and  I  draw 
my  own  conclusions.  If  they  happen  to  fit  in 
at  all  with  the  conclusions  of  Pythagoras — 
or  anyone  else,  for  that  matter — well  and 
good.  If  not,  I  am  not  much  concerned. 
Surely  you  notice  the  animal — and  not 
merely  the  animal,  but  definite  animals — 
reproduced  in  man.  There  are  men  whose 


©he  ftetnrn  of  the  Soul.          115 

whole  demeanour  suggests  the  monkey.  I 
have  met  women  who  in  manner,  appearance, 
and  even  character,  were  intensely  like  cats." 

I  uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  which  did 
not  interrupt  him. 

"  Now,  I  have  made  a  minute  study  of 
cats.  Of  all  animals  they  interest  me  the 
most.  They  have  less  apparent  intensity, 
less  uttered  passion,  than  dogs,  but  in  my 
opinion  more  character.  Their  subtlety  is 
extraordinary,  their  sensitiveness  wonderful. 
Will  you  understand  me  when  I  say  that  all 
dogs  are  men,  all  cats  women  ?  That  remark 
expresses  the  difference  between  them." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  Go  on — go  on,"  I  said,  leaning  forward, 
with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  his  keen,  puckered 
face. 

He  seemed  pleased  with  my  suddenly- 
aroused  interest. 

"  Cats  are  as  subtle  and  as  difficult  to 
understand  as  the  most  complex  woman,  and 
almost  as  full  of  intuitions.  If  they  have 
been  well  treated,  there  is  often  a  certain 
gracious,  condescending  suavity  in  their  de- 
meanour at  first,  even  towards  a  total  stran- 
ger ;  but  if  that  stranger  is  ill  disposed  toward 
them,  they  seem  instinctively  to  read  his  soul, 
and  they  are  in  arms  directly.  Yet  they  dis- 


n6          ®h.e  ftetnrn  of  i\]e  Sonl. 

semble  their  fears  in  a  cold  indifference  and 
reserve.  They  do  not  take  action :  they 
merely  abstain  from  action.  They  withdraw 
the  soul  that  has  peeped  out,  as  they  can 
withdraw  their  claws  into  the  pads  upon  their 
feet.  They  do  not  show  fight  as  a  dog  might, 
they  do  not  become  aggressive,  nor  do  they 
whine  and  put  their  tails  between  their  legs. 
They  are  simply  on  guard,  watchful,  mistrust- 
ful. Is  not  all  this  woman  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  I  answered,  with  a  painful 
effort  to  assume  indifference. 

"  A  woman  intuitively  knows  who  is  her 
friend  and  who  is  her  enemy — so  long,  at 
least,  as  her  heart  is  not  engaged;  then  she 

runs  wild,  I  allow.  A  woman But  I  need 

not  pursue  the  parallel.  Besides,  perhaps  it 
is  scarcely  to  the  point,  for  my  object  is  not 
to  bolster  up  an  absurd  contention  that  all 
women  have  the  souls  of  cats.  No ;  but  I 
have  met  women  so  strangely  like  cats  that 
their  souls  have,  as  I  said  before  souls  do, 
coloured  their  bodies  in  actions.  They  have 
had  the  very  look  of  cats  in  their  faces. 
They  have  moved  like  them.  Their  demean- 
our has  been  patently  and  strongly  feline. 
Now,  I  see  nothing  ridiculous  in  the  assump- 
tion that  such  women's  bodies  may  contain 
souls — in  process  of  development,  of  course — 


®he  Bctnrn  of  the  Sonl.          117 

that  formerly  were  merely  cat  souls,  but  that 
are  now  gaining  humanity  gradually,  are 
working  their  way  upwards  in  the  scale. 
After  all,  we  are  not  so  much  above  the  ani- 
mals, and  in  our  lapses  we  often  become 
merely  animals.  The  soul  retrogrades  for 
the  moment." 

He  paused  again  and  looked  at  me.  I 
was  biting  my  lips,  and  my  glass  of  wine  was 
untouched.  He  took  my  agitation  as  a  com- 
pliment, I  suppose,  for  he  smiled  and  said : 

"  Are  you  in  process  of  conversion  ? " 

I  half  shook  my  head.  Then  I  said,  with 
an  effort:  "It  is  a  curious  and  interesting 
idea,  of  course.  But  there  is  much  to  ex- 
plain. Now,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  this  : 
Do  you — do  you  believe  that  a  soul,  if  it 
passes  on  as  you  think,  carries  its  memory 
with  it,  its  memory  of  former  loves  and — and 
hates  ?  Say  that  a  cat's  soul  goes  to  a  wom- 
an's body,  and  that  the  cat  has  been — has 
been — well,  tortured — possibly  killed,  by 
someone — say  some  man,  long  ago,  would 
the  woman,  meeting  that  man,  remember  and 
shrink  from  him  ?" 

"  That  is  a  very  interesting  and  curious 
problem,  and  one  which  I  do  not  pretend  to 
have  solved.  I  can,  therefore,  only  suggest 
what  might  be,  what  seems  to  me  reasonable. 


n8          She  Eetnrn  of  the  Sonl. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  woman  would  re- 
member positively,  but  I  think  she  might 
have  an  intuition  about  the  man.  Our  intui- 
tions are,  perhaps,  sometimes  only  the  frag- 
mentary recollections  of  our  souls,  of  what 
formerly  happened  to  them  when  in  other 
bodies.  Why,  otherwise,  should  we  some- 
times conceive  an  ardent  dislike  of  some 
stranger — charming  to  all  appearance — of 
whom  we  know  no  evil,  whom  we  have  never 
heard  of  nor  met  before  ?  Intuitions,  so  called, 
are  often  only  tattered  memories.  And  these 
intuitions  might,  I  should  fancy,  be  strength- 
ened, given  body,  robustness,  by  associations 
— of  place,  for  example.  Cats  become  in- 
tensely attached  to  localities,  to  certain  spots, 
a  particular  house  or  garden,  a  particular 
fireside,  apart  from  the  people  who  may  be 
there.  Possibly,  if  the  man  and  the  woman 
of  whom  you  speak  could  be  brought  to- 
gether in  the  very  place  where  the  torture 
and  death  occurred,  the  dislike  of  the  woman 
might  deepen  into  positive  hatred.  It  would, 
however,  be  always  unreasoning  hatred,  I 
think,  and  even  quite  unaccountable  to  her- 
self. Still " 

But  here  Lord  Melchester  rose  from  the 
table.  The  conversations  broke  into  frag- 
ments. I  felt  that  I  was  pale  to  the  lips. 


Hetnrtt  of  the  Bonl.          119 


We  passed  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
ladies  were  grouped  together  at  one  end, 
near  the  piano.  Margot  was  among  them. 
She  was,  as  usual,  dressed  in  white,  and  round 
the  bottom  of  her  gown  there  was  an  edging 
of  snow-white  fur.  As  we  came  in,  she 
moved  away  from  the  piano  to  a  sofa  at 
some  distance,  and  sank  down  upon  it.  Pro- 
fessor Black,  who  had  entered  the  room  at 
my  side,  seized  my  arm  gently. 

"  Now,  that  lady,"  he  whispered  in  my 
ear  —  "I  don't  know  who  she  may  be,  but  she 
is  intensely  cat-like.  I  observed  it  before 
dinner.  Did  you  notice  the  way  she  moved 
just  then  —  the  soft,  yielding,  easy  manner  in 
which  she  sat  down,  falling  at  once,  quite 
naturally,  into  a  charming  pose  ?  And  her 
china-blue  eyes  are  -  " 

"  She  is  my  wife,  Professor,"  I  interrupted 
harshly. 

He  looked  decidedly  taken  aback. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  had  no  idea.  I 
did  not  enter  the  drawing-room  to-night  till 
after  you  arrived.  I  believed  that  lady  was 
one  of  my  fellow-guests  in  the  house.  Let 
me  congratulate  you.  She  is  very  beautiful." 

And  then  he  mingled  rather  hastily  in  the 
group  near  the  piano. 

The  man  is  mad,  I  know  —  mad  as  a  hatter 


120          ®|)e  Heturn  of  the  Soul. 

on  one  point,  like  so  many  clever  men.  He 
sees  the  animal  in  every  person  he  meets 
just  because  his  preposterous  theory  inclines 
him  to  do  so.  Having  given  in  his  adher- 
ence to  it,  he  sees  facts  not  as  they  are,  but 
as  he  wishes  them  to  be ;  but  he  shall  not 
carry  me  with  him.  The  theory  is  his,  not 
mine.  It  does  not  hold  water  for  a  moment. 
I  can  laugh  at  it  now,  but  that  night  I  con- 
fess it  did  seize  me  for  the  time  being.  I 
could  scarcely  talk  ;  I  found  myself  watch- 
ing Margot  with  a  terrible  intentness,  and  I 
found  myself  agreeing  with  the  Professor  to 
an  extent  that  made  me  marvel  at  my  own 
previous  blindness. 

There  was  something  strangely  feline 
about  the  girl  I  had  married — the  soft,  white 
girl  who  was  becoming  terrible  to  me,  dear 
though  she  still  was  and  must  always  be. 
Her  movements  had  the  subtle,'  instinctive 
and  certain  grace  of  a  cat's.  Her  cushioned 
step,  which  had  often  struck  me  before,  was 
like  the  step  of  a  cat.  And  those  china-blue 
eyes!  A  sudden  cold  seemed  to  pass  over 
me  as  I  understood  why  I  had  recognised 
them  when  I  first  met  Margot.  They  were 
the  eyes  of  the  animal  I  had  tortured,  the 
animal  I  had  killed.  Yes,  'but  that  proved 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  Many  people 


<£he  ftetnrn  of  the  Soul.          121 

had  the  eyes  of  animals — the  soft  eyes  of 
dogs,  the  furtive,  cruel  eyes  of  tigers.  I  had 
known  such  people.  I  had  even  once  had  an 
affair  with  a  girl  who  was  always  called  the 
shot  partridge,  because  her  eyes  were  sup- 
posed to  be  like  those  of  a  dying  bird.  I 
tried  to  laugh  to  myself  as  I  remembered 
this.  But  I  felt  cold,  and  my  senses  seemed 
benumbed  as  by  a  great  horror.  I  sat  like  a 
stone,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  Margot,  try- 
ing painfully  to  read  into  her  all  that  the 
words  of  Professor  Black  had  suggested  to 
me — trying,  but  with  the  wish  not  to  succeed. 
I  was  roused  by  Lady  Melchester,  who 
came  toward  me  asking  me  to  do  something, 
I  forget  now  what.  I  forced  myself  to  be 
cheerful,  to  join  in  the  conversation,  to  seem  at 
my  ease;  but  I  felt  like  one  oppressed  with 
nightmare,  and  I  could  scarcely  withdraw  my 
eyes  from  the  sofa  where  my  wife  was  sitting. 
She  was  talking  now  to  Professor  Black,  who 
had  just  been  introduced  to  her;  and  I  felt  a 
sudden  fury  in  my  heart  as  I  thought  that  he 
was  perhaps  dryly,  coldly,  studying  her,  little 
knowing  what  issues — far-reaching,  it  might 
be,  in  their  consequences — hung  upon  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  his  strange  theory. 
They  were  talking  earnestly,  and  presently  it 
occurred  to  me  that  he  might  be  imbuing 


122  glK  Uctnrn  of  tljc  Gotil. 

Margot  with  his  pernicious  doctrines,  that  he 
might  be  giving  her  a  knowledge  of  her  own 
soul  which  now  she  lacked.  The  idea  was  in- 
supportable. I  broke  off  abruptly  the  con- 
versation in  which  I  was  taking  part,  and 
hurried  over  to  them  with  an  impulse  which 
must  have  astonished  anyone  who  took  note 
of  me.  I  sat  down  on  a  chair,  drew  it  for- 
ward almost  violently,  and  thrust  myself  in 
between  them. 

"  What  are  you  two  talking  about  ?  "  I  said, 
roughly,  with  a  suspicious  glance  at  Margot. 

The  Professor  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"  I  was  instructing  your  wife  in  some  of 
the  mysteries  of  salmon-fishing,"  he  said. 
"  She  tells  me  you  have  a  salmon-river  run- 
ning through  your  grounds." 

I  laughed  uneasily. 

"  So  you  are  a  fisherman  as  well  as  a  ro- 
mantic theorist !  "  I  said,  rather  rudely. 
"  How  I  wish  I  were  as  versatile !  Come, 
Margot,  we  must  be  going  now.  The  car- 
riage ought  to  be  here." 

She  rose  quietly  and  bade  the  Professor 
good-night ;  but  as  she  glanced  up  at  me,  in 
rising,  I  fancied  I  caught  a  new  expression  in 
her  eyes.  A  ray  of  determination,  of  set  pur- 
pose, mingled  with  the  gloomy  fire  of  their 
despair. 


SThe  Hettmt  of  the  00ol.          123 

As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  carriage  I 
spoke,  with  a  strained  effort  at  ease  and  the 
haphazard  tone  which  should  mask  furtive 
cross-examination. 

"  Professor  Black  is  an  interesting  man,"  I 
said. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  answered  from 
her  dark  corner. 

"  Surely.  His  intellect  is  really  alive. 
Yet,  with  all  his  scientific  knowledge  and  his 
power  of  eliciting  facts  and  elucidating  them, 
he  is  but  a  featherheaded  man."  I  paused, 
but  she  made  no  answer.  "  Do  you  not  think 
so?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ? "  she  replied.  "  We 
only  talked  about  fishing.  He  managed  to 
make  that  topic  a  pleasant  one." 

Her  tone  was  frank.     I  felt  relieved. 

"  He  is  exceedingly  clever,"  I  said,  hearti- 
ly, and  we  relapsed  into  silence. 

When  we  reached  home,  and  Margot  had 
removed  her  cloak,  she  came  up  to  me  and 
laid  her  hand'  on  my  arm. 

So  unaccustomed  was  her  touch  now  that 
I  was  startled.  She  was  looking  at  me  with 
a  curious,  steady  smile — an  unwavering  smile 
that  chilled  instead  of  warming  me. 

"  Ronald,"  she  said,  •'  there  has  been  a 
breach  between  us.  I  have  been  the  cause 
9 


124          (Ehe  Beturn  of  tfye  Soul. 

of  it.  I  should  like  to — to  heal  it.  Do  you 
still  love  me  as  you  did  ? " 

I  did  not  answer  immediately ;  I  could 
not.  Her  voice,  schooled  as  it  was,  seemed 
somehow  at  issue  with  the  words  she  uttered. 
There  was  a  desperate,  hard  note  in  it  that 
accorded  with  that  enigmatic  smile  of  the 
mouth. 

It  roused  a  cold  suspicion  within  me  that 
I  was  close  to  a  masked  battery.  I  shrank 
physically  from  the  touch  of  her  hand. 

She  waited  with  her  eyes  upon  me.  Our 
faces  were  lit  tremblingly  by  the  flames  of 
the  two  candles  we  held. 

At  last  I  found  a  voice. 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  ? "  I  asked. 

She  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"  Then  let  us  resume  our  old  relations," 
she  said. 

"  Our  old  relations  ? " 

"Yes." 

I  shuddered  as  if  a  phantom  stole  by  me. 
I  was  seized  with  horror. 

"To-night?     It  is  not  possible  !" 

"Why?"  she  said,  still  with  that  steady 
smile  of  the  mouth. 

"Because — because  I  don't  know — I 

To-morrow  it  shall  be  as  of  old,  Margot — 
to-morrow.  I  promise  you." 


She  ftetnrn  of  the  Soul.          125 

"Very  well.     Kiss  me,  dear." 

I  forced  myself  to  touch  her  lips  with 
mine. 

Which  mouth  was  the  colder  ? 

Then,  with  that  soft,  stealthy  step  of  hers, 
she  vanished  towards  her  room.  I  heard  the 
door  close  gently. 

I  listened.  The  key  was  not  turned  in 
the  lock. 

This  sudden  abandonment  by  Margot  of 
the  fantastic  precautions  I  had  almost  be- 
come accustomed  to  filled  me  with  a  name- 
less dread. 

That  night  I  fastened  my  door  for  the 
first  time. 

IV. 

FRIDAY  NIGHT,  November  6th. 
I  FASTENED  my  door,  and  when  I  went  to 
bed  lay  awake  for  hours  listening.  A  horror 
was  upon  me  then  which  has  not  left  me  since 
for  a  moment,  which  may  never  leave  me.  I 
shivered  with  cold  that  night,  the  cold  born 
of  sheer  physical  terror.  I  knew  that  I  was 
shut  up  in  the  house  with  a  soul  bent  on  un- 
reasoning vengeance,  the  soul  of  the  animal 
which  I  had  killed  prisoned  in  the  body  of 
the  woman  I  had  married.  I  was  sick  with 
fear  then.  I  am  sick  with  fear  now. 


126          She  tletttrn  of  the  0onl. 

To-night  I  am  so  tired.  My  eyes  are 
heavy  and  my  head  aches.  No  wonder.  I 
have  not  slept  for  three  nights.  I  have  not 
dared  to  sleep. 

This  strange  revolution  in  my  wife's  con- 
duct, this  passionless  change — for  I  felt  in- 
stinctively that  warm  humanity  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  transformation — took  place 
three  nights  ago.  These  three  last  days  Mar- 
got  has  been  playing  a  part.  With  what  ob- 
ject ? 

When  I  sat  down  to  this  gray  record  of 
two  souls — at  once  dreary  and  fantastic  as  it 
would  seem,  perhaps,  to  many — I  desired  to 
reassure  myself,  to  write  myself  into  sweet 
reason,  into  peace. 

I  have  tried  to  accomplish  the  impossible. 
I  feel  that  the  wildest  theory  may  be  the  tru- 
est, after  all — that  on  the  borderland  of  what 
seems  madness,  actuality  paces. 

Every  remembrance  of  my  mind  confirms 
the  truth  first  suggested  to  me  by  Professor 
Black. 

I  know  Margot's  object  now.        » 

The  soul  of  the  creature  that  I  tortured, 
that  I  killed,  has  passed  into  the  body  of  the 
woman  whom  I  love ;  and  that  soul,  which 
once  slept  in  its  new  cage,  is  awake  now, 
watching,  plotting  perhaps.  Unconsciously 


Kelnrn  of  the  0onl.          127 


to  itself,  it  recognises  me.  It  stares  out  upon 
me  with  eyes  in  which  the  dull  terror  deepens 
to  hate  ;  but  it  does  not  understand  why  it 
fears  —  why,  in  its  fear,  it  hates.  Intuition 
has  taken  the  place  of  memory.  The  change 
of  environment  has  killed  recollection,  and 
has  left  instinct  in  its  place. 

Why  did  I  ever  sit  down  to  write  ?  The 
recalling  of  facts  has  set  the  seal  upon  my 
despair. 

Instinct  only  woke  in  Margot  when  I 
brought  her  to  the  place  the  soul  had  known 
in  the  years  when  it  looked  out  upon  the 
world  from  the  body  of  an  animal. 

That  first  day  on  the  terrace  instinct 
stirred  in  its  sleep,  opened  its  eyes,  gazed 
forth  upon  me  wonderingly,  inquiringly. 

Margot's  faint  remembrance  of  the  terrace 
walk,  of  the  flower-pots,  of  the  grass  borders 
where  the  cat  had  often  stretched  itself  in  the 
sun,  her  eagerness  to  see  the  chamber  of 
death,  her  stealthy  visits  to  that  chamber,  her 
growing  uneasiness,  deepening  to  acute  ap- 
prehension, and  finally  to  a  deadly  malignity 
—  all  lead  me  irresistibly  to  one  conclusion. 

The  animal's  soul  within  her  no  longer 
merely  shrinks  away  in  fear  of  me.  It  has 
grown  sinister.  It  lies  in  ambush,  full  of  a 
cold,  a  stealthy  intention. 


i28          Stye  Ketnrn  of  tl)e  0onl. 

That  curious,  abrupt  change  in  Margot's 
demeanour  from  avoidance  to  invitation 
marked  the  subtle,  inward  development  of 
feeling,  the  silent  passage  from  sensation  only 
towards  action. 

Formerly  she  feared  me.  Now  I  must  fear 
her. 

The  soul,  crouqhing  in  its  cage,  shows  its 
teeth.  It  is  compassing  my  destruction. 

The  woman's  body  twitches  with  desire  to 
avenge  the  death  of  the  animal's. 

I  feel  that  it  is  only  waiting  the  moment 
to  spring ;  and  the  inherent  love  of  life  breeds 
in  me  a  physical  fear  of  it  as  of  a  subtle  ene- 
my. For  even  if  the  soul  is  brave,  the  body 
dreads  to  die,  and  seems  at  moments  to  pos- 
sess a  second  soul,  purely  physical,  that  cries 
out  childishly  against  pain,  against  death. 

Then,  too,  there  is  a  cowardice  of  the  im- 
agination that  can  shake  the  strongest  heart, 
and  this  resurrection  from  the  dead,  from  the 
murdered,  appals  my  imagination.  That  what 
I  thought  I  had  long  since  slain  should  have 
companioned  me  so  closely  when  I  knew  it 
not ! 

I  am  sick  with  fear,  physical  and  mental. 

Two  days  ago,  when  I  unlocked  my  bed- 
room door  in  the  morning,  and  saw  the 
autumn  sunlight  streaming  in  through  the 


She  ftetnrn  of  the  Sonl.          129 

leaded  panes  of  the  hall  windows,  and  heard 
the  river  dancing  merrily  down  the  gully 
among  the  trees  that  will  soon  be  quite  bare 
and  naked,  I  said  to  myself :  "  You  have  been 
mad.  Your  mind  has  been  filled  with  horri- 
ble dreams,  that  have  transformed  you  into  a 
coward  and  your  wife  into  a  demon.  Put 
them  away  from  you." 

I  looked  across  the  gully.  A  clear,  cold, 
thin  light  shone  upon  the  distant  mountains. 
The  cloud  stacks  lay  piled  above  the  Scaw- 
fell  range.  The  sky  was  a  sheet  of  faded 
turquoise.  I  opened  the  window  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  air  was  dry  and  keen.  How 
sweet  it  was  to  feel  it  on  my  face ! 

I  went  down  to  the  breakfast-room.  Mar- 
got  was  moving  about  it  softly,  awaiting  me. 
In  her  white  hands  were  letters.  They 
dropped  upon  the  table  as  she  stole  up  to 
greet  me.  Her  lips  were  set  tightly  together, 
but  she  lifted  them  to  kiss  me. 

How  close  I  came  to  my  enemy  as  our 
mouths  touched  !  Her  lips  were  colder  than 
the  wind. 

Now  that  I  was  with  her,  my  momentary 
sensation  of  acute  relief  deserted  me.  The 
horror  that  oppressed  me  returned. 

I  could  not  eat — I  could  only  make  a  pre- 
tence of  doing  so;  and  my  hand  trembled  so 


130  £be  Uctnrn  of  the  Bool. 

excessively  that  I  could  scarcely  raise  my 
cup  from  the  table. 

She  noticed  this,  and  gently  asked  me  if  I 
was  ill. 

I  shook  my  head. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  she  said  in  a 
low,  level  voice : 

"  Ronald,  have  you  thought  over  what  I 
said  last  night  ?  " 

"  Last  night  ? "  I  answered,  with  an  effort. 

"Yes,  about  the  coldness  between  us.  I 
think  I  have  been  unwell,  unhappy,  out  of 
sorts.  You  know  that — that  women  are  more 
subject  to  moods  than  men,  moods  they  can- 
not always  account  for  even  to  themselves. 
I  have  hurt  you  lately,  I  know.  I  am  sorry. 
I  want  you  to  forgive  me,  to — to  " — she 
paused  a  moment,  and  I  heard  her  draw  in 
her  breath  sharply — "  to  take  me  back  into 
your  heart  again." 

Every  word,  as  she  said  it,  sounded  to  me 
like  a  sinister  threat,  and  the  last  sentence 
made  my  blood  literally  go  cold  in  my  veins. 

I  met  her  eyes.  She  did  not  withdraw 
hers;  they  looked  into  mine.  They  were  the 
blue  eyes  of  the  cat  which  I  had  held  upon 
my  knees  years  ago.  I  had  gazed  into  them 
as  a  boy,  and  watched  the  horror  and  the 
fear  dawn  in  them  with  a  malignant  triumph. 


ttetnrn  of  the  0o«l.          131 


"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,"  I  said  in  a 
broken,  husky  voice. 

"You  have  much,"  she  answered  firmly. 
"But  do  not  —  pray  do  not  bear  malice." 

"  There  is  no  malice  in  my  heart  —  now,"  I 
said  ;  and  the  words  seemed  like  a  cowardly 
plea  for  mercy  to  the  victim  of  the  past. 

She  lifted  one  of  her  soft  white  hands  to 
my  breast. 

"  Then  it  shall  all  be  as  it  was  before  ? 
And  to-night  you  will  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

I  hesitated,  looking  down.  But  how  could 
I  refuse  ?  What  excuse  could  I  make  for 
denying  the  request  ?  Then  I  repeated 
mechanically  : 

"  To-night  I  will  come  back  to  you." 

A  terrible,  slight  smile  travelled  over  her 
face.  She  turned  and  left  me. 

I  sat  down  immediately.  I  felt  too  un- 
nerved to  remain  standing.  I  was  giving 
way  utterly  to  an  imaginative  horror  that 
seemed  to  threaten  my  reason.  In  vain  I 
tried  to  pull  myself  together.  My  body  was 
in  a  cold  sweat.  All  mastery  of  my  nerves 
seemed  gone. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  remained  there, 
but  I  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  the  but- 
ler. He  glanced  towards  me  in  some  obvious 
surprise,  and  this  astonishment  of  a  servant 


i32          ®t)*  Uetnrn  of  the  Soni. 

acted  upon  me  almost  like  a  scourge.  I 
sprang  up  hastily. 

"Tell  the  groom  to  saddle  the  mare,"  I 
said.  "  I  am  going  for  a  ride  immediately." 

Air,  action,  were  what  I  needed  to  drive 
this  stupor  away.  I  must  get  away  from  this 
house  of  tears.  I  must  be  alone.  I  must 
wrestle  with  myself,  regain  my  courage,  kill 
the  coward  in  me. 

I  threw  myself  upon  the  mare,  and  rode 
out  at  a  gallop  towards  the  moors  of  Eskdale 
along  the  lonely  country  roads. 

All  day  I  rode,  and  all  day  I  thought  of 
that  dark  house,  of  that  white  creature  await- 
ing my  return,  peering  from  the  windows, 
perhaps,  listening  for  my  horse's  hoofs  on 
the  gravel,  keeping  still  the  long  vigil  of  ven- 
geance. 

My  imagination  sickened,  fainted,  as  my 
wearied  horse  stumbled  along  the  shadowy 
roads.  My  terror  was  too  great  now  to  be 
physical.  It  was  a  terror  purely  of  the  spirit, 
and  indescribable. 

To  sleep  with  that  white  thing  that  waited 
me  !  To  lie  in  the  dark  by  it !  To  know  that 
it  was  there,  close  to  me ! 

If  it  killed  me,  what  matter  ?  It  was  to 
live  and  to  be  near  it,  with  it,  that  appalled 
me. 


Upturn  0f  the  S0ui.          133 


The  lights  of  the  house  gleamed  out 
through  the  trees.  I  heard  the  sound  of  the 
river. 

I  got  off  my  horse  and  walked  furtively 
into  the  hall,  looking  round  me. 

Margot  glided  up  to  me  immediately,  and 
took  my  whip  and  hat  from  me  with  her  soft, 
velvety  white  hands.  I  shivered  at  her  touch. 

At  dinner  her  blue  eyes  watched  me. 

I  could  not  eat,  but  I  drank  more  wine 
than  usual. 

When  I  turned  to  go  down  to  the  smoking- 
room,  she  said:  "Don't  be  very  long,  Ron- 
ald." 

I  muttered  I  scarcely  know  what  words  in 
reply.  It  was  close  on  midnight  before  I 
went  to  bed.  When  I  entered  her  room, 
shielding  the  light  of  the  candle  with  my 
hand,  she  was  still  awake. 

Nestling  against  the  pillows,  she  stretched 
herself  curiously  and  smiled  up  at  me. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,  dear," 
she  said. 

I  knew  that  I  was  very  pale,  but  she  did 
not  remark  it.  I  got  into  bed,  but  left  the 
candle  still  burning. 

Presently  she  said  : 

"  Why  don't  you  put  the  candle  out  ?  " 

I    looked    at    her    furtively.     Her    face 


134          ®l)e  fteturn  of  the  Sonl. 

seemed  to  me  carved  in  stone,  it  was  so 
rigid,  so  expressionless.  She  lay  away  from 
me  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bed,  sideways, 
with  her  hands  toward  me. 

"Why  don't  you  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  her 
blue  eyes  on  me. 

"  I  don't  feel  sleepy,"  I  answered  slowly. 

"You  never  will  while  there  is  a  light  in 
the  room,"  she  said. 

"  You  wish  me  to  put  it  out  ?  " 

"Yes.  How  odd  you  are  to-night,  Ron- 
ald !  Is  anything  the  matter  ? " 

"  No,"  I  answered ;  and  I  blew  the  light 
out. 

How  ghastly  the  darkness  was! 

I  believed  she  meant  to  smother  me  in 
my  sleep.  I  knew  it.  I  determined  to  keep 
awake. 

It  was  horrible  to  think  that,  as  we  lay 
there,  she  could  see  me  all  the  time  as  if  it 
were  daylight. 

The  night  wore  on.  She  was  quite  silent 
and  motionless.  I  lay  listening. 

It  must  have  been  towards  morning  when 
I  closed  my  eyes,  not  because  I  was  sleepy, 
but  because  I  was  so  tired  of  gazing  at 
blackness. 

Soon  after  I  had  done  this  there  was  a 
stealthy  movement  in  the  bed. 


®he  Hetnrn  of  the  Soul.          135 

"  Margot,  are  you  awake  ? "  I  instantly 
cried  out  sharply. 

The  movement  immediately  ceased.  There 
was  no  reply. 

When  the  light  of  dawn  stole  in  at  the 
window  she  seemed  to  be  sleeping. 

Last  night  I  did  not  close  my  eyes  once. 
She  did  not  move. 

She  means  to  tire  me  out,  and  she  has  the 
strength  to  do  it.  To-night  I  feel  so  intense- 
ly heavy.  Soon  I  must  sleep,  and  then 

Shall  I  seek  any  longer  to  defend  myself  ? 
Everything  seems  so  inevitable,  so  beyond 
my  power,  like  the  working  of  an  inexorable 
justice  bent  on  visiting  the  sin  of  the  father 
upon  the  child.  For  was  not  the  cruel  boy 
the  father  of  the  man  ? 

And  yet,  is  this  tragedy  inevitable?  It 
cannot  be.  I  will  be  a  man.  I  will  rise  up 
and  combat  it.  I  will  take  Margot  away 
from  this  house  that  her  soul  remembers,  in 
which  its  body  so  long  ago  was  tortured  and 
slain,  and  she  will — she  must  forget. 

Instinct  will  sleep  once  more.  It  shall  be 
so.  I  will  have  it  so.  I  will  strew  poppies 
over  her  soul.  I  will  take  her  far  away  from 
here,  far  away,  to  places  where  she  will  be 
once  more  as  she  has  been. 


is6          ®b*  Uetnrn  of  the  Qonl. 


To-morrow  we  will  go.     To-morrow- 


Ah,  that  cry!  Was  it  my  own?  I  am 
suffocating!  What  was  that?  The  horror 
of  it!  The  pen  has  fallen  from  my  hand.  I 
must  have  slept ;  and  I  have  dreamed.  In 
my  dream  she  stole  upon  me,  that  white 
thing !  Her  velvety  hands  were  on  my 
throat.  The  soul  stared  out  from  her  eyes, 
the  soul  of  the  cat!  Even  her  body,  her 
woman's  body,  seemed  to  change  at  the  mo- 
ment of  vengeance.  She  slowly  strangled 
me,  and  as  the  breath  died  from  me,  and  my 
failing  eyes  gazed  at  her,  she  was  no  longer 
woman  at  all,  but  something  lithe  and  white 
and  soft.  Fur  enveloped  my  throat.  Those 
hands  were  claws.  That  breath  on  my  face 
was  the  breath  of  an  animal.  The  body  had 
come  back  to  companion  the  soul  in  its  ven- 
geance, the  body  of 

Ah,  it  was  too  horrible ! 

Can  vengeance  for  the  dead  bring  with  it 
resurrection  of  the  dead  ? 

Hark  !  There  is  a  voice  calling  to  me 
from  upstairs. 

"  Ronald,  are  you  never  coming  ?  I  am 
tired  of  waiting  for  you.  Ronald  !  " 

"  Yes." 


Beturn  of  t^e  Sonl.          137 


"  Come  to  me  !  " 
"  And  I  must  go." 

Just  at  the  glimmer  of  dawn  the  first  pale 
shaft  of  the  sun  struck  across  a  bed  upon 
which  lay  the  huddled  and  distorted  corpse 
of  a  man.  His  head  was  sunk  down  in  the 
pillows.  His  eyes,  that  could  not  see,  stared 
towards  the  rising  light.  And  from  the  open 
window  of  the  chamber  of  death  a  woman  in 
a  white  wrapper  leaned  out,  watching  eagerly 
with  wide  blue  eyes  the  birds  as  they  darted 
to  and  fro,  rested  on  the  climbing  creepers, 
or  circled  above  the  gorge  through  which  the 
river  ran.  Her  set  lips  smiled.  She  looked 
like  one  calm,  easy,  and  at  peace.  Presently 
an  unwary  sparrow  perched  on  the  trellis  be- 
neath the  window  just  within  her  reach.  Her 
white  hand  darted  down  softly,  closed  on  the 
bird.  She  vanished  from  the  window. 

Can  the  dead  hear  ?  Did  he  catch  the 
sound  of  her  faint,  continuous  purring  as  she 
crouched  with  her  prey  upon  the  floor  ? 


THE  COLLABORATORS. 


"WHY  shouldn't  we  collaborate?"  said 
Henley  in  his  most  matter-of-fact  way,  as 
Big.  Ben  gave  voice  to  the  midnight  hour. 
"  Everybody  does  it  nowadays.  Two  heads 
may  be  really  better  than  one,  although  I 
seldom  believe  in  the  truth  of  accepted  say- 
ings. Your  head  is  a  deuced  good  one,  An- 
drew ;  but — now  don't  get  angry — you  are 
too  excitable  and  too  intense  to  be  left  quite 
to  yourself,  even  in  book-writing,  much  less 
in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life.  I  think  you 
were  born  to  collaborate,  and  to  collaborate 
with  me.  You  can  give  me  everything  I  lack, 
and  I  can  give  you  a  little  of  the  sense  of 
humour,  and  act  as  a  drag  upon  the  wheel." 

"  None  of  the  new  humour,  Jack  ;  that 
shall  never  appear  in  a  book  with  my  name 
attached  to  it.  Dickens  I  can  tolerate.  He 
is  occasionally  felicitous.  The  story  of  '  The 
Dying  Clown,'  for  instance,  crude  as  it  is 
138 


Collaborators.  139 


has  a  certain  grim  tragedy  about  it.  But  the 
new  humour  came  from  the  pit,  and  should 
go  —  to  the  Sporting  Times." 

"  Now,  don't  get  excited.  The  book  is 
not  in  proof  yet  —  perhaps  never  will  be. 
You  need  not  be  afraid.  My  humour  will 
probably  be  old  enough.  But  what  do  you 
say  to  the  idea  ?  " 

Andrew  Trenchard  sat  for  awhile  in  silent 
consideration.  His  legs  were  stretched  out, 
and  his  slippered  feet  rested  on  the  edge  of 
the  brass  fender.  A  nimbus  of  smoke  sur- 
rounded his  swarthy  features,  his  shock  of 
black  hair,  his  large,  rather  morose,  dark 
eyes.  He  was  a  man  of  about  twenty-five, 
with  an  almost  horribly  intelligent  face,  so 
observant  that  he  tried  people,  so  acute  that 
he  frightened  them.  His  intellect  was  never 
for  a  moment  at  rest,  unless  in  sleep.  He 
devoured  himself  with  his  own  emotions,  and 
others  with  his  analysis  of  theirs.  His  mind 
was  always  crouching  to  spring,  except  when 
it  was  springing.  He  lived  an  irregular  life, 
and  all  horrors  had  a  subtle  fascination  for 
him.  As  Henley  had  remarked,  he  possessed 
little  sense  of  humour,  but  immense  sense  of 
evil  and  tragedy  and  sorrow.  He  seldom 
found  time  to  calmly  regard  the  drama  of 
life  from  the  front.  He  was  always  at  the 
10 


i4°  ®l)e  Collaborators. 

stage-door,  sending  in  his  card,  and  request- 
ing admittance  behind  the  scenes.  What  was 
on  the  surface  only  interested  him  in  so  far 
as  it  indicated  what  was  beneath,  and  in  all 
mental  matters  his  normal  procedure  was 
that  of  the  disguised  detective.  Stupid 
people  disliked  him.  Clever  people  dis- 
trusted him  while  they  admired  him.  The 
mediocre  suggested  that  he  was  liable  to  go 
off  his  head,  and  the  profound  predicted  for 
him  fame,  tempered  by  suicide. 

Most  people  considered  him  interesting, 
and  a  few  were  sincerely  attached  to  him. 
Among  these  last  was  Henley,  who  had  been 
his  friend  at  Oxford,  and  had  taken  rooms 
in  the  same  house  with  him  in  Smith's  Square, 
Westminster.  Both  the  young  men  were 
journalists.  Henley,  who,  as  he  had  ac- 
knowledged, possessed  a  keen  sense  of  hu- 
mour, and  was  not  so  much  ashamed  of  it  as 
he  ought  to  have  been,  wrote — very  occa- 
sionally— for  Punch,  and  more  often  for  Fun, 
was  dramatic  critic  of  a  lively  society  paper, 
and  "  did  "  the  books — in  a  sarcastic  vein — 
for  a  very  unmuzzled  "weekly,"  that  was 
libellous  by  profession  and  truthful  by  over- 
sight. Trenchard,  on  the  other  hand,  wrote 
a  good  deal  of  very  condensed  fiction,  and 
generally  placed  it;  contributed  brilliant 


<ZT0Uab0rat0r0.  141 


fugitive  articles  to  various  papers  and  maga- 
zines, and  was  generally  spoken  of  by  the 
inner  circle  of  the  craft  as  "  a  rising  man," 
and  a  man  to  be  afraid  of.  Henley  was  full 
of  common-sense,  only  moderately  introspec- 
tive, facile,  and  vivacious.  He  might  be 
trusted  to  tincture  a  book  with  the  popular 
element,  and  yet  not  to  spoil  it  ;  for  his  liter- 
ary sense  was  keen,  despite  his  jocular  lean- 
ing toward  the  new  humour.  He  lacked  im- 
agination ;  but  his  descriptive  powers  were 
racy,  and  he  knew  instinctively  what  was 
likely  to  take,  and  what  would  be  caviare  to 
the  general. 

Trenchard,  as  he  considered  the  proposi- 
tion now  made  to  him,  realized  that  Henley 
might  supply  much  that  he  lacked  in  any 
book  that  was  written  with  a  view  to  popular 
success.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it. 

"  But  we  should  quarrel  inevitably  and 
doggedly,"  he  said  at  last.  "  If  I  can  not 
hold  myself  in,  still  less  can  I  be  held  in. 
We  should  tear  one  another  in  pieces.  When 
I  write,  I  feel  that  what  I  write  must  be,  how- 
ever crude,  however  improper  or  horrible  it 
may  seem.  You  would  want  to  hold  me 
back." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  should  more  than  want 
to  —  I  should  do  it.  In  collaboration,  no  man 


142  She  (JTcllaborators. 

can  be  a  law  unto  himself.  That  must  be 
distinctly  understood  before  we  begin.  I 
don't  wish  to  force  the  proposition  on  you. 
Only  we  are  both  ambitious  devils.  We  are 
both  poor.  We  are  both  determined  to  try  a 
book.  Have  we  more  chance  of  succeeding 
if  we  try  one  together  ?  I  believe  so.  You 
have  the  imagination,  the  grip,  the  stern 
power  to  evolve  the  story,  to  make  it  seem  in- 
evitable, to  force  it  step  by  step  on  its  way. 
I  can  lighten  that  way.  I  can  plant  a  few 
flowers — they  shall  not  be  peonies,  I  promise 
you — on  the  roadside.  And  I  can,  and,  what 
is  more,  will,  check  you  when  you  wish  to 
make  the  story  impossibly  horrible  or  fan- 
tastic to  the  verge  of  the  insane.  Now,  you 
needn't  be  angry.  This  book,  if  we  write  it, 
has  got  to  be  a  good  book,  and  yet  a  book 
that  will  bring  grist  to  the  mill.  That  is  un- 
derstood." 

Andrew's  great  eyes  flashed  in  the  lamp- 
light. 

"  The  mill,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes  I  feel 
inclined  to  let  it  stop  working.  Who  would 
care  if  one  wheel  ceased  to  turn  ?  There  are 
so  many  others." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  sort  of  thing  I  shall  cut  out 
of  the  book  !  "  cried  Henley,  turning  the  soda- 
water  into  his  whisky  with  a  cheerful  swish. 


(£he  Collaborators.  143 

"We  will  be  powerful,  but  never  morbid; 
tragic,  if  you  like,  but  not  without  hope.  We 
need  not  aspire  too  much ;  but  we  will  not 
look  at  the  stones  in  the  road  all  the  time. 
And  the  dunghills,  in  which  those  weird  fowl, 
the  pessimistic  realists,  love  to  rake,  we  will 
sedulously  avoid.  Cheer  up,  old  fellow,  and 
be  thankful  that  you  possess  a  corrective 
in  me." 

Trenchard's  face  lightened  in  a  rare  smile 
as,  with  a  half-sigh,  he  said  : 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  and  that  I  need 
a  collaborator,  an  opposite,  who  is  yet  in 
sympathy  with  me.  Yes  ;  either  of  us  might 
fail  alone ;  together  we  should  succeed." 

"  Will  succeed,  my  boy  !  " 

"  But  not  by  pandering  to  the  popular 
taste,"  added  Andrew  in  his  most  sombre 
tones,  and  with  a  curl  of  his  thin,  delicately- 
moulded  lips.  "  I  shall  never  consent  to  that." 

"  We  will  not  call  it  pandering.  But  we 
must  hit  the  taste  of  the  day,  or  we  shall  look 
a  couple  of  fools." 

"  People  are  always  supposed  to  look  fools 
when,  for  once,  they  are  not  fools,"  said  An- 
drew. 

"  Possibly.  But  now  our  bargain  is  made. 
Strike  hands  upon  it.  Henceforth  we  are  col- 
laborators as  well  as  friends." 


144  ®lje  Collaborators. 

Andrew  extended  his  long,  thin,  feverish 
hand,  and,  as  Henley  held  it  for  a  moment, 
he  started  at  the  intense,  vivid,  abnormal  per- 
sonality its  grasp  seemed  to  reveal.  To  col- 
laborate with  Trenchard  was  to  collaborate 
with  a  human  volcano. 

"And  now  for  the  germ  of  our  book,"  he 
said,  as  the  clock  struck  one.  "  Where  shall 
we  find  it  ?" 

Trenchard  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  with 
his  hands  pressed  upon  the  arms. 

"  Listen,  and  I  will  give  it  you,"  he  said. 

And,  almost  until  the  dawn  and  the  wak- 
ening of  the  slumbering  city,  Henley  sat  and 
listened,  and  forgot  that  his  pipe  was  smoked 
out,  and  that  his  feet  were  cold.  Trenchard 
had  strange  powers,  and  could  enthral  as  he 
could  also  repel. 

"  It  is  a  weird  idea,  and  it  is  very  power- 
ful," Henley  said  at  last.  "  But  you  stop  short 
at  the  critical  moment.  Have  you  not  de- 
vised a  denouement?  " 

"  Not  yet.  That  is  where  the  collabora- 
tion will  come  in.  You  must  help  me.  We 
must  talk  it  over.  I  am  in  doubt." 

He  got  up  and  passed  his  hands  nervously 
through  his  thick  hair. 

"  My  doubt  has  kept  me  awake  so  many 


Collaborators.  145 


nights  !  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  rather 
husky  and  worn. 

Henley  looked  at  him  almost  compassion- 
ately. 

"  How  intensely  you  live  in  your  fancies  !  " 

"  My  fancies  ?  "  said  Andrew,  with  a  sud- 
den harsh  accent,  and  darting  a  glance  of  cu- 
rious watchfulness  upon  his  friend.  "  My 
-  Yes,  yes.  Perhaps  I  do.  Perhaps  I 
try  to.  Some  people  have  souls  that  must 
escape  from  their  environment,  their  misera- 
ble life-envelope,  or  faint.  Many  of  us  la- 
bour and  produce  merely  to  create  an  atmos- 
phere in  which  we  ourselves  may  breathe  for 
awhile  and  be  happy.  Damn  this  London, 
and  this  lodging,  and  this  buying  bread  with 
words  !  I  must  create  for  myself  an  atmos- 
phere. I  must  be  always  getting  away  from 
what  is,  even  if  I  go  lower,  lower.  Ah  !  Well 
—  but  the  denouement.  Give  me  your  impres- 
sions." 

Henley  meditated  for  awhile.  Then  he 
said  :  "  Let  us  leave  it.  Let  us  get  to  work  ; 
and  in  time,  as  the  story  progresses,  it  will 
seem  inevitable.  We  shall  see  it  in  front  of 
us,  and  we  shall  not  be  able  to  avoid  it.  Let 
us  get  to  work  "  —  he  glanced  at  his  watch 
and  laughed  —  "  or,  rather,  let  us  get  to  bed. 
It  is  past  four.  This  way  madness  lies. 


146  ®ije  Collaborators. 


When  we  collaborate,  we  will  write  in  the 
morning.  Our  book  shall  be  a  book  of  the 
dawn,  and  not  of  the  darkness,  despite  its 
sombre  theme." 

"  No,  no  ;  it  must  be  a  book  of  the  dark- 
ness." 

"  Of  the  darkness,  then,  but  written  in  the 
dawn.  Your  tragedy  tempered  by  my  trust 
in  human  nature,  and  the  power  that  causes 
things  to  right  themselves.  Good-night,  old 
boy." 

"  Good-night." 

When  Henley  had  left  the  room,  Tren- 
chard  sat  for  a  moment  with  his  head  sunk 
low  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  half  closed. 
Then,  with  a  jerk,  he  gained  his  feet,  went  to 
the  door,  opened  it,  and  looked  forth  on  the 
deserted  landing.  He  listened,  and  heard 
Henley  moving  to  and  fro  in  his  bedroom. 
Then  he  shut  the  door,  took  off  his  smoking- 
coat,  and  bared  his  left  arm.  There  was  a 
tiny  blue  mark  on  it. 

"  What  will  the  denouement  be  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered to  himself,  as  he  felt  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  with  a  trembling  hand. 

II. 

THE  book  was  moving  onward  by  slow 
degrees  and  with  a  great  deal  of  discussion. 


<E01iab0rat0r0.  147 


In  those  days  Henley  and  Trenchard  lived 
much  with  sported  oaks.  They  were  battling 
for  fame.  They  were  doing  all  they  knew. 
Literary  gatherings  missed  them.  First  nights 
knew  them  no  more.  The  grim  intensity 
that  was  always  characteristic  of  Trenchard 
seemed  in  some  degree  communicated  to 
Henley.  He  began  to  more  fully  understand 
what  the  creating  for  one's  self  of  an  atmos- 
phere meant.  The  story  he  and  his  friend 
were  fashioning  fastened  upon  him  like  some 
strange,  determined  shadow  from  the  realms 
of  real  life,  gripped  him  more  and  more 
closely,  held  him  for  long  spells  of  time  in  a 
new  and  desolate  world.  For  the  book  so 
far  was  a  deepening  tragedy,  and  although, 
at  times,  Henley  strove  to  resist  the  para- 
mount influence  which  the  genius  of  Tren- 
chard began  to  exercise  over  him,  he  found 
himself  comparatively  impotent,  unable  to 
shed  gleams  of  popular  light  upon  the  dark- 
ness of  the  pages.  The  power  of  the  tale 
was  undoubted.  Henley  felt  that  it  was  a  big 
thing  that  they  two  were  doing  ;  but  would 
it  be  a  popular  thing  —  a  money-making  thing  ? 
That  was  the  question.  He  sometimes  wished 
with  all  his  heart  they  had  chosen  a  different 
subject  to  work  their  combined  talent  upon. 
The  germ  of  the  work  seemed  only  capa- 


148  ®l)c  (Joliaboratore. 

ble  of  tragic  treatment,  if  the  book  were  to 
be  artistic.  Their  hero  was  a  man  of  strong 
intellect,  of  physical  beauty,  full  at  first  of 
the  joy  of  life,  chivalrous,  a  believer  in  the 
innate  goodness  of  human  nature.  Believing 
in  goodness,  he  believed  also  ardently  in  in- 
fluence. In  fact,  he  was  a  worshipper  of  in- 
fluence, and  his  main  passion  was  to  seize 
upon  the  personalities  of  others,  and  impose 
his  own  personality  upon  them.  He  loved  to 
make  men  and  women  see  with  his  eyes  and 
hear  with  his  ears,  adopt  his  theories  as  truth, 
take  his  judgment  for  their  own.  All  that  he 
thought  was — to  him.  He  never  doubted 
himself,  therefore  he  could  not  bear  that 
those  around  him  should  not  think  with  him, 
act  towards  men  and  women  as  he  acted,  face 
life  as  he  faced  it.  Yet  he  was  too  subtle 
ever  to  be  dogmatic.  He  never  shouted  in 
the  market-place.  He  led  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact  as  adroitly  as  if  he  had 
been  evil,  and  to  the  influence  of  others  he 
was  as  adamant. 

Events  brought  into  his  life  a  woman, 
complex,  subtle  too,  with  a  naturally  noble 
character  and  fine  understanding,  a  woman 
who,  like  so  many  women,  might  have  been 
anything,  and  was  far  worse  than  nothing — a 
hopeless,  helpless  slave,  the  victim  of  the 


(Collaborators.  149 


morphia  habit,  which  had  gradually  degraded 
her,  driven  her  through  sloughs  of  immoral- 
ity, wrecked  a  professional  career  which  at 
one  time  had  been  almost  great,  shattered 
her  constitution,  though  not  all  her  still  curi- 
ous beauty,  and  ruined  her,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  body  and  soul.  The  man  and  the 
woman  met,  and  in  a  flash  the  man  saw  what 
she  had  been,  what  she  might  have  been, 
what,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  all,  she  still  was, 
somewhere,  somehow.  In  her  horrible  deg- 
radation, in  her  dense  despair,  she  fascinated 
him.  He  could  only  see  the  fire  bursting 
out  of  the  swamp.  He  could  only  feel  on 
his  cheek  the  breath  of  the  spring  in  the 
darkness  of  the  charnel-house.  He  knew 
that  she  gave  to  him  his  great  lifework. 
Her  monstrous  habit  he  simply  could  not 
comprehend.  It  was  altogether  as  fan- 
tastic to  him  as  absolute  virtue  sometimes 
seems  to  absolute  vice.  He  looked  upon  it, 
and  felt  as  little  kinship  with  it  as  a  saint 
might  feel  with  a  vampire.  To  him  it  was 
merely  a  hideous  and  extraordinary  growth, 
which  had  fastened  like  a  cancer  upon  a 
beautiful  and  wonderful  body,  and  which 
must  be  cut  out.  He  was  profoundly  inter- 
ested. 

He  loved  the  woman.     Seeing  her  gov- 


150  ®l)e  Collaborators. 

erned  entirely  by  a  vice,  he  made  the  very 
common  mistake  of  believing  her  to  have  a 
weak  personality,  easily  falling,  perhaps  for 
that  very  reason  as  easily  lifted  to  her  feet. 
He  resolved  to  save  her,  to  devote  all  his 
powers,  all  his  subtlety,  all  his  intellect,  all 
his  strong  force  of  will,  to  weaning  this 
woman  from  her  fatal  habit.  She  was  a  mar- 
ried woman,  long  ago  left,  to  kill  herself  if 
she  would,  by  the  husband  whose  happiness 
she  had  wrecked.  He  took  her  to  live  with 
him.  For  her  sake  he  defied  the  world,  and 
set  himself  to  do  angel's  work  when  people 
believed  him  at  the  devil's.  He  resolved  to 
wrap  her,  to  envelop  her  in  his  influence,  to 
enclose  her  in  his  strong  personality.  Here, 
at  last,  was  a  grand,  a  noble  opportunity  for 
the  legitimate  exercise  of  his  master  passion. 
He  was  confident  of  victory. 

But  his  faith  in  himself  was  misplaced. 
This  woman,  whom  he  thought  so  weak,  was 
yet  stronger  than  he.  Although  he  could 
not  influence  her,  he  began  to  find  that  she 
could  influence  him.  At  first  he  struggled 
with  her  vice,  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand. He  thought  himself  merely  horrified 
at  it ;  then  he  began  to  lose  the  horror  in 
wonder  at  its  power.  Its  virility,  as  it  were, 
fascinated  him  just  a  little.  A  vice  so  over- 


Collaborators.  151 


whelmingly  strong  seemed  to  him  at  length 
almost  glorious,  almost  God-like.  There 
was  a  sort  of  humanity  about  it.  Yes,  it  was 
like  a  being  who  lived  and  who  conquered. 

The  woman  loved  him,  and  he  tried  to 
win  her  from  it  ;  but  her  passion  for  it  was 
greater  than  her  passion  for  him,  greater 
than  had  been  her  original  passion  for  purity, 
for  health,  for  success,  for  homage,  for  all 
lovely  and  happiness-making  things.  Her 
passion  for  it  was  so  great  that  it  roused  the 
man's  curiosity  at  last;  it  made  him  hold  his 
breath,  and  stand  in  awe,  and  desire  furtively 
to  try  just  once  for  himself  what  its  dominion 
was  like,  to  test  its  power  as  one  may  test 
the  power  of  an  electric  battery.  He  dared 
not  do  this  openly,  for  fear  the  fact  of  his 
doing  so  might  drive  the  woman  still  farther 
on  the  downward  path.  So  in  secret  he  tasted 
the  fascinations  of  her  vice,  once  —  and  again 
—  and  yet  again.  But  still  he  struggled  for 
her  while  he  was  ceasing  to  struggle  for  him- 
self. Still  he  combated  for  her  the  foe  who 
was  conquering  him.  Very  strange,  very 
terrible  was  his  position  in  that  London  house 
with  her,  isolated  from  the  world.  For  his 
friends  had  dropped  him.  Even  those  who 
were  not  scandalized  at  his  relations  with  this 
woman  had  ceased  to  come  near  him.  They 


i52  ®f)£  Collaborators. 

found  him  blind  and  deaf  to  the  ordinary  in- 
terests of  life.  He  never  went  out  anywhere, 
unless  occasionally  with  her  to  some  theatre. 
He  never  invited  anyone  to  come  and  see 
him.  At  first  the  woman  absorbed  all  his  in- 
terest, all  his  powers  of  love — and  then  at 
last  the  woman  and  her  vice,  which  was  be- 
coming his  too.  By  degrees  he  sank  lower 
and  lower,  but  he  never  told  the  woman  the 
truth,  and  he  still  urged  her  to  give  up  her 
horrible  habit,  which  now  he  loved.  And 
she  laughed  in  his  face,  and  asked  him  if  a 
human  creature  who  had  discovered  a  new 
life  would  be  likely  to  give  it  up.  "A  new 
death,"  he  murmured,  and  then,  looking  in  a 
mirror  near  to  him,  saw  his  lips  curved  in  the 
thin,  pale  smile  of  the  hypocrite. 

So  far  the  two  young  men  had  written. 
They  worked  hard,  but  their  industry  was 
occasionally  interrupted  by  the  unaccount- 
able laziness  of  Andrew,  who,  after  toiling 
with  unremitting  fury  for  some  days,  and 
scarcely  getting  up  from  his  desk,  would  dis- 
appear, and  perhaps  not  return  for  several 
nights.  Henley  remonstrated  with  him,  but 
in  vain. 

"But  what  do  you  do,  my  dear  fellow?" 
he  asked.  "  What  becomes  of  you  ? " 


(Elje  Collaborators.  153 

"  I  go  away  to  think  out  what  is  coming. 
The  environment  I  seek  helps  me,"  answered 
Andrew,  with  a  curious,  gleaming  smile.  "  I 
return  full  of  fresh  copy." 

This  was  true  enough.  He  generally 
mysteriously  departed  when  the  book  was 
beginning  to  flag,  and  on  his  reappearance 
he  always  set  to  work  with  new  vigour  and 
confidence. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  Henley  said,  "  that  it 
will  be  your  book  after  all,  not  mine.  It  is 
your  plot,  and  when  I  think  things  over  I 
find  that  every  detail  is  yours.  You  insisted 
on  the  house  where  the  man  and  the  woman 
hid  themselves  being  on  the  Chelsea  Em- 
bankment. You  invented  the  woman,  her 
character,  her  appearance.  You  named  her 
Olive  Beauchamp." 

"  Olive  Beauchamp,"  Andrew  repeated, 
with  a  strange  lingering  over  the  two  words, 
which  he  pronounced  in  a  very  curious  voice 
that  trembled,  as  if  with  some  keen  emotion, 
love  or  hate.  "Yes ;  I  named  her  as  you  say." 

"  Then,  as  the  man  in  the  play  remarks, 
'Where  do  I  come  in  ?'"  Henley  asked,  half 
laughing,  half  vexed.  "  Upon  my  word,  I 
shall  have  some  compunction  in  putting  my 
name  below  yours  on  the  title-page  when  the 
book  is  published,  if  it  ever  is." 


Collaborators. 


Andrew's  lips  twitched  once  or  twice  un- 
easily.    Then  he  said,  "  You  need  not  have 
any  such  compunction.     The  greatest  chap- 
ter will  probably  be  written  by  you." 
•   "  Which  chapter  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  which  winds  the  story  up  —  that 
which  brings  the  whole  thing  to  its  legiti- 
mate conclusion.  You  must  write  the  ddnoue- 
ment." 

"  I  doubt  if  I  could.  And  then  we  have 
not  even  now  decided  what  it  is  to  be." 

"  We  need  not  bother  about  that  yet.  It 
will  come.  Fate  will  decide  it  for  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Andrew  ?  How 
curiously  you  talk  about  the  book  sometimes 
—  so  precisely  as  if  it  were  true  !  " 

Trenchard  smiled  again,  struck  a  match, 
and  lit  his  pipe. 

"  It  seems  true  to  me  —  when  I  am  writing 
it,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  been  writing  it 
these  last  two  days  and  nights  when  I  have 
been  away,  and  now  I  can  go  forward,  if 
you  agree  to  the  new  development  which  I 
suggest." 

It  was  night.  He  had  been  absent  for 
some  days,  and  had  just  returned.  Henley, 
meanwhile,  had  been  raging  because  the  book 
had  come  to  a  complete  standstill.  He  him- 
self could  do  nothing  at  it,  since  they  had 


She  Collaborators.  155 

reached  a  dead-lock,  and  had  not  talked  over 
any  new  scenes,  or  mutually  decided  upon 
the  turn  events  were  now  to  take.  He  felt 
rather  cross  and  sore. 

"  You  can  go  forward,"  he  said  :  "  yes, 
after  your  holiday.  You  might  at  least  tell 
me  when  you  are  going." 

"  I  never  know  myself,"  Andrew  said 
rather  sadly. 

He  was  looking  very  white  and  worn,  and 
his  eyes  were  heavy. 

"  But  I  have  thought  some  fresh  material 
out.  My  idea  is  this :  The  man  now  be- 
comes such  a  complete  slave  to  the  morphia 
habit  that  concealment  of  the  fact  is  scarcely 
possible.  And,  indeed,  he  ceases  to  desire  to 
conceal  it  from  the  woman.  The  next  scene 
will  be  an  immensely  powerful  one — that  in 
which  he  tells  her  the  truth." 

"You  do  not  think  it  would  be  more  nat- 
ural if  she  found  it  out  against  his  will  ? 
It  seems  to  me  that  what  he  had  concealed 
so  long  he  would  try  to  hide  for  ever." 

"  No,"  Andrew  said  emphatically ;  "  that 
would  not  be  so." 

«  But " 

"  Look  here,"  the  other  interrupted,  with 
some  obvious  irritability;  "let  me  tell  you 
what  I  have  conceived,  and  raise  any  objec- 
ii 


156  ®he  (E0llab0ratcr0. 

tions  afterwards  if  you  wish  to  raise  them. 
He  would  tell  her  the  truth  himself.  He 
would  almost  glory  in  doing  so.  That  is  the 
nature  of  the  man.  We  have  depicted  his 
pride  in  his  own  powers,  his  temptation,  his 
struggle — his  fall,  as  it  would  be  called " 

"As  it  would  be  called." 

"Well,  well! — his  fall,  then.  And  now 
comes  the  moment  when  his  fall  is  complete. 
He  bends  the  neck  finally  beneath  his  tyrant, 
and  then  he  goes  to  the  woman  and  he  tells 
her  the  truth." 

"  But  explain  matters  a  little  more.  Do 
you  mean  that  he  is  glad,  and  tells  almost 
with  triumph ;  or  that  he  is  appalled,  and 
tells  her  with  horror?" 

"Ah!  That  is  where  the  power  of  the 
scene  lies.  He  is  appalled.  He  is  like  a  man 
plunged  at  last  into  hell  without  hope  of  fu- 
ture redemption.  He  tells  her  the  truth  with 
horror." 

"And  she?" 

"It  is  she  who  triumphs.  Look  here:  it 
will  be  like  this." 

Andrew  leaned  forward  across  the  table 
that  stood  between  their  two  worn  armchairs. 
His  thin,  feverish-looking  hands,  with  the  fin- 
gers strongly  twisted  together,  rested  upon  it. 
His  dark  eyes  glittered  with  excitement. 


QTIje  Collaborators.  157 

"  It  will  be  like  this.  It  is  evening — a 
dark,  dull  evening,  like  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, closing  in  early,  throttling  the  after- 
noon prematurely,  as  it  were.  A  drizzling 
rain  falls  softly,  drenching  everything — the 
sodden  leaves  of  the  trees  on  the  Embank- 
ment, the  road,  which  is  heavy  with  clinging 
yellow  mud,  the  stone  coping  of  the  wall  that 
skirts  the  river. 

"  And  the  river  heaves  along.  Its  gray, 
dirty  waves  are  beaten  up  by  a  light,  chilly 
wind,  and  chase  the  black  barges  with  a 
puny,  fretful,  sinister  fury,  falling  back  from 
their  dark,  wet  sides  with  a  hiss  of  baffled 
hatred.  Yes,  it  is  dreary  weather. 

"  Do  you  know,  Henley,  as  I  know,  the 
strange,  subtle  influence  of  certain  kinds  of 
weather  ?  There  are  days  on  which  I  could 
do  great  deeds  merely  because  of  the  way 
the  sun  is  shining.  There  are  days,  there 
are  evenings,  when  I  could  commit  crimes 
merely  because  of  the  way  the  wind  is  whis- 
pering, the  river  is  sighing,  the  dingy  night 
is  clustering  around  me.  There  can  be  an 
angel  in  the  weather,  or  there  can  be  a  devil. 
On  this  evening  I  am  describing  there  is  a 
devil  in  the  night ! 

"  The  lights  twinkle  through  the  drizzling 
rain,  and  they  are  blurred,  as  bright  eyes  are 


158  ®he  Collaborator. 

blurred,  and  made  dull  and  ugly,  by  tears. 
Two  or  three  cabs  roll  slowly  by  the  houses 
on  the  Embankment.  A  few  people  hurry 
past  along  the  slippery,  shining  pavement. 
But  as  the  night  closes  in  there  is  little  life 
outside  those  tall,  gaunt  houses  that  are  so 
near  the  river !  And  in  one  of  those  houses 
the  man  comes  down  to  the  woman  to  tell 
her  the  truth. 

"  There  is  a  devil  in  the  weather  that 
night,  as  I  said,  and  that  devil  whispers  to 
the  man,  and  tells  him  that  it  is  now  his 
struggle  must  end  finally,  and  the  new  era  of 
unresisted  yielding  to  the  vice  begin.  In  the 
sinister  darkness,  in  the  diminutive,  drench- 
ing mist  of  rain,  he  speaks,  and  the  man  lis- 
tens, and  bows  his  head  and  answers  '  yes ! ' 
It  is  over.  He  has  fallen  finally.  He  is  re- 
solved, with  a  strange,  dull  obstinacy  that 
gives  him  a  strange,  dull  pleasure — do  you 
see  ? — to  go  down  to  the  room  below,  and  tell 
the  woman  that  she  has  conquered  him — that 
his  power  of  will  is  a  reed  which  can  be 
crushed — that  henceforth  there  shall  be  two 
victims  instead  of  one.  He  goes  down." 

Andrew  paused  a  moment.  His  lips  were 
twitching  again.  He  looked  terribly  excited. 
Henley  listened  in  silence.  He  had  lost  all 
wish  to  interrupt. 


(Collaborators.  159 


"  He  goes  down  into  the  room  below 
where  the  woman  is,  with  her  dark  hair,  and 
her  dead-white  face,  and  her  extraordinary 
eyes  —  large,  luminous,  sometimes  dull  and 
without  expression,  sometimes  dilated,  and 
with  an  unnatural  life  staring  out  of  them. 
She  is  on  the  sofa  near  the  fire.  He  sits 
down  beside  her.  His  head  falls  into  his 
hands,  and  at  first  he  is  silent.  He  is  think- 
ing how  he  will  tell  her.  She  puts  her  soft, 
dry  hand  on  his,  and  she  says  :  '  I  am  very 
tired  to-night.  Do  not  begin  your  evening 
sermon.  Let  me  have  it  to-morrow.  How 
you  must  love  me  to  be  so  persistent  !  and 
how  you  must  love  me  to  be  so  stupid  as  to 
think  that  your  power  of  will  can  break  the 
power  of  such  a  habit  as  mine  !  ' 

"  Then  he  draws  his  hand  away  from  hers, 
and  he  lifts  his  head  from  his  hands,  and  he 
tells  her  the  truth.  She  leans  back  against  a 
cushion  staring  at  him  in  silence,  devouring 
him  with  her  eyes,  which  have  become  very 
bright  and  eager  and  searching.  Presently 
he  stops. 

"'Go  on,'  she  says,  'go  on.  Tell  me 
more.  Tell  me  all  you  feel.  Tell  me  how 
the  habit  stole  upon  you,  and  came  to  you 
again  and  again,  and  stayed  with  you.  Tell 
me  how  you  first  liked  it,  and  then  loved  it, 


160  (Elje  <Jl0Uab0rat0r0. 

and  how  it  was  something  to  you,  and  then 
much,  and  then  everything.  Go  on  !  go  on  ! ' 

"  And  he  catches  her  excitement.  He 
conceals  nothing  from  her.  All  the  hideous, 
terrible,  mental  processes  he  has  been 
through,  he  details  to  her,  at  first  almost' 
gloating  over  his  own  degradation.  He 
even  exaggerates,  as  a  man  exaggerates  in 
telling  a  story  to  an  eager  auditor.  He  is 
carried  away  by  her  strange  fury  of  listening. 
He  lays  bare  his  soul ;  he  exposes  its 
wounds;  he  sears  them  with  red-hot  irons 
for  her  to  see.  And  then  at  last  all  is  told. 
He  can  think  of  no  more  details.  He  has 
even  embellished  the  abominable  truth.  So 
he  is  silent,  and  he  looks  at  her." 

"  And  what  does  she  do  ?"  asked  Henley, 
with  a  catch  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke.  Un- 
doubtedly in  relating  a  fictitious  narrative 
Andrew  had  a  quite  abnormal  power  of  mak- 
ing it  appear  true  and  real. 

"  She  looks  at  him,  and  then  she  bursts 
out  laughing.  Her  eyes  shine  with  triumph. 
She  is  glad  ;  she  is  joyous  with  the  joy  of  a 
lost  soul  when  it  sees  that  other  souls  are  ir- 
revocably lost  too  ;  she  laughs,  and  she  says 
nothing." 

"And  the  man  ?" 

Andrew's    eyes    suddenly    dilated.       He 


Collaborators.  161 


leaned  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  Henley's 
arm. 

"Ah,  the  man  !  that  is  my  great  idea.  As 
she  laughs  his  heart  is  changed.  His  love  for 
her  suddenly  dies.  Its  place  is  taken  by 
hatred.  He  realizes  then,  for  the  first  time, 
while  he  hears  her  laugh,  what  she  has  done 
to  him.  He  knows  that  she  has  ruined  him, 
and  that  she  is  proud  of  it  —  that  she  is  re- 
joicing in  having  won  him  to  destruction. 
He  sees  that  his  perdition  is  merely  a  feather 
in  her  cap.  He  hates  her.  Oh,  how  he  hates 
her  !  —  hates  her  !  " 

The  expression  on  Andrew's  face  became 
terrible  as  he  spoke  —  cruel,  malignant,  almost 
fiendish.  Henley  turned  cold,  and  shook  off 
his  hand  abruptly. 

"  That  is  horrible  !  "  he  said.  "  I  object 
to  that.  The  book  will  be  one  of  unrelieved 
gloom." 

"  The  book  !  "  said  Andrew. 

"  Yes.  You  behave  really  as  if  the  story 
were  true,  as  if  everything  in  it  were  ordained 
—  inevitable." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me  ;  it  is  so.  What  must 
be,  must  be.  If  you  are  afraid  of  tragedy, 
you  ought  never  to  have  joined  me  in  start- 
ing upon  such  a  story.  Even  what  has  never 
happened  must  be  made  to  seem  actual  to  be 


1  62  ®f)*  Collaborators. 


successful.     The  art  of  fiction  is  to  imitate 
truth  with  absolute  fidelity,  not  to  travesty  it. 
In  such  circumstances  the  man's  love  would' 
be  changed  to  hatred." 

"Yes,  if  the  woman's  demeanour  were 
such  as  you  have  described.  But  why  should 
she  be  so  callous  ?  'I  do  not  think  that  is 
natural." 

"  You  do  not  know  the  woman,"  began 
Andrew  harshly.  Then  he  stopped  speaking 
abruptly,  and  a  violent  flush  swept  over  his 
face. 

"  I  know  her  as  well  as  you  do,  my  dear 
fellow,"  rejoined  Henley,  laughing.  "  How 
you  manage  to  live  in  your  dreams  !  You 
certainly  do  create  an  atmosphere  for  your- 
self with  a  vengeance,  and  for  me  too.  I  be- 
lieve you  have  an  abnormal  quantity  of  elec- 
tricity concealed  about  you  somewhere,  and 
sometimes  you  give  me  a  shock  and  carry  me 
out  of  myself.  If  this  is  collaboration,  it  is 
really  a  farce.  From  the  very  first  you  have 
had  things  all  your  own  way.  You  have 
talked  me  over  to  your  view  upon  every  sin- 
gle occasion  ;  but  now  I  am  going  to  strike. 
I  object  to  the  conduct  you  have  devised  for 
Olive.  It  will  alienate  all  sympathy  from 
her  ;  it  is  the  behaviour  of  a  devil." 

"  It  is  the  behaviour  of  a  woman,"  said 


<£011aborat0r0.  163 


Andrew,  with  a  cold  cynicism  that  seemed  to 
cut  like  a  knife. 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  How  can  you  judge 
of  women  so  surely  ?  " 

"  I  study  all  strange  phenomena,  women 
among  the  rest." 

"  Have  you  ever  met  an  Olive  Beauchamp, 
then,  in  real  life  ?  "  said  Henley. 

The  question  was  put  more  than  half  in 
jest  ;  but  Trenchard  received  it  with  a  heavy 
frown. 

"  Don't  let  us  quarrel  about  the  matter," 
he  said.  "  I  can  only  tell  you  this  ;  and  mind, 
Jack,  I  mean  it.  It  is  my  unalterable  resolve. 
Either  the  story  must  proceed  upon  the  lines 
that  I  have  indicated,  or  I  cannot  go  on  with 
it  at  all.  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
write  it  differently." 

"And  this  is  collaboration,  is  it?"  ex- 
claimed the  other,  trying  to  force  a  laugh, 
though  even  his  good-nature  could  .scarcely 
stand  Trenchard's  trampling  demeanour. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  cannot  be  inartistic 
and  untrue  to  Nature  even  for  the  sake-  of  a 
friend." 

"  Thank  you.  Well,  I  have  no  desire  to 
ruin  your  work,  Andrew  ;  but  it  is  really  use- 
less for  this  farce  to  continue.  Do  what  you 
like,  and  let  us  make  no  further  pretence  of 


164  ®lje  QI0Uaborat0rs. 

collaborating.  I  cannot  act  as  a  drag  upon 
such  a  wheel  as  yours.  I  will  not  any  longer 
be  a  dead-weight  upon  you.  Our  tempera- 
ments evidently  unfit  us  to  be  fellow-workers  ; 
and  I  feel  that  your  strength  and  power  are  so 
undeniable  that  you  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to 
carry  this  weary  tragedy  through,  and  by 
sheer  force  make  it  palatable  to  the  public. 
I  will  protest  no  more ;  I  will  only  cease  any 
longer  to  pretend  to  have  a  finger  in  this  lit- 
erary pie." 

Andrew's  morose  expression  passed  away 
like  a  cloud.  He  got  up  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  Henley's  shoulder. 

"  You  make  me  feel  what  a  beast  I  am," 
he  said.  "  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  was  made 
so.  Do  forgive  me,  Jack.  I  have  taken  the 
bit  between  my  teeth,  I  know.  But — this 
story  seems  to  me  no  fiction ;  it  is  a  piece  of 
life,  as  real  to  me  as  those  stars  I  see  through 
the  window-pane  are  real  to  me — as  my  own 
emotions  are  real  to  me.  Jack,  this  book 
has  seized  me.  Believe  me,  if  it  is  written  as 
I  wish,  it  will  make  an  impression  upon  the 
world  that  will  be  great.  The  mind  of  the 
world  is  given  to  me  like  a  sheet  of  blank 
paper.  I  will  write  upon  it  with  my  heart's 
blood.  But  " — and  here  his  manner  became 
strangely  impressive,  and  his  sombre,  heavy 


Collaborators.  165 


eyes  gazed  deeply  into  the  eyes  of  his  friend 
—  "  remember  this  !  You  will  finish  this  book. 
I  feel  that;  I  know  it.  I  cannot  tell  you 
why.  But  so  it  is  ordained.  Let  me  write  as 
far  as  I  can,  Jack,  and  let  me  write  as  I  will. 
But  do  not  let  us  quarrel.  The  book  is  ours, 
not  mine.  And  —  don't  —  don't  take  away 
your  friendship  from  me." 

The  last  words  were  said  with  an  outburst 
of  emotion  that  was  almost  feminine  in  inten- 
sity. Henley  felt  deeply  moved,  for,  as  a 
rule,  Andrew's  manner  was  not  specially  af- 
fectionate, or  even  agreeable. 

"  It  is  all  right,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  in 
the  embarrassed  English  manner  which  often 
covers  so  much  that  might  with  advantage 
be  occasionally  revealed.  "  Go  on  in  your 
own  way.  I  believe  you  are  a  genius,  and  I 
am  only  trying  to  clip  the  wings  that  may 
carry  you  through  the  skies.  Go  on  in  your 
own  way,  and  consult  me  only  when  you  feel 
inclined." 

Andrew  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  in 
silence. 

III. 

IT  was  some  three  weeks  after  this  that 
one  afternoon  Trenchard  laid  down  his  pen 
at  the  conclusion  of  a  chapter,  and,  getting 


166  ®|)e  Collaborators. 


up,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
walked  to  the  window. 

The  look-out  was  rather  dreary.  A  gray 
sky  leaned  over  the  great,  barrack-like  church 
that  gives  an  ecclesiastical  flavour  to  Smith's 
Square.  A  few  dirty  sparrows  fluttered  above 
the  gray  pavement  —  feverish,  unresting  birds, 
Trenchard  named  them  silently,  as  he 
watched  their  meaningless  activity,  their 
jerky,  ostentatious  deportment,  with  lack- 
lustre, yet  excited,  eyes.  How  gray  every- 
thing looked,  tame,  colourless,  indifferent  ! 
The  light  was  beginning  to  fade  stealthily 
out  of  things.  The  gray  church  was  grad- 
ually becoming  shadowy.  The  flying  forms 
of  the  hurrying  sparrows  disappeared  in  the 
weary  abysses  of  the  air  and  sky.  The  sit- 
ting-room in  Smith's  Square  was  nearly  dark 
now.  Henley  had  gone  out  to  a  matinee  at 
one  of  the  theatres,  so  Trenchard  was  alone. 
He  struck  a  match  presently,  lit  a  candle, 
carried  it  over  to  his  writing-table,  and  began 
to  examine  the  littered  sheets  he  had  just 
been  writing.  The  book  was  nearing  its  end. 
The  tragedy  was  narrowing  to  a  point. 
Trenchard  read  the  last  paragraph  which  he 
had  written  : 

"  He  hardly  knew  that  he  lived,  except 
during  those  many  hours  when,  plunged  in 


(Ehe  QTollaboratore.  167 

dreams,  he  allowed,  nay,  forced,  life  to  leave 
him  for  awhile.  He  had  sunk  to  depths  be- 
low even  those  which  Olive  had  reached. 
And  the  thought  that  she  was  ever  so  little 
above  him  haunted  him  like  a  spectre  impel- 
ling him  to  some  mysterious  deed.  When 
he  was  not  dreaming,  he  was  dwelling  upon 
this  idea  which  had  taken  his  soul  captive. 
It  seemed  to  be  shaping  itself  towards  an 
act.  Thought  was  the  ante-room  through 
which  he  passed  to  the  hall  where  Fate  was 
sitting,  ready  to  give  him  audience.  He 
traversed  this  ante-room,  which  seemed  lined 
with  fantastic  and  terrible  pictures,  at  first 
with  lagging  footfalls.  But  at  length  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  door  that  divided  him 
from  Fate." 

And  when  he  had  read  the  final  words  he 
gathered  the  loose  sheets  together  with  his 
long,  thin  fingers,  and  placed  them  one  on 
the  top  of  the  other  in  a  neat  pile.  He  put 
them  into  a  drawer  which  contained  other 
unfinished  manuscripts,  shut  the  drawer, 
locked  it,  and  carried  the  key  to  Henley's 
room.  There  he  scribbled  some  words  on  a 
bit  of  notepaper,  wrapped  the  key  in  it,  and 
inclosed  it  in  an  envelope  on  which  he  wrote 
Henley's  name.  Then  he  put  on  his  over- 


168  ®h_e  Collaborator. 

coat,  descended  the  narrow  stairs,  and 
opened  the  front-door.  The  landlady  heard 
him,  and  screamed  from  the  basement  to 
know  if  he  would  be  in  to  dinner. 

"  I  shall  not  be  in  at  all  to-night,"  he  an- 
swered, in  a  hard,  dry  voice  that  travelled 
along  the  dingy  passage  with  a  penetrating 
distinctness.  The  landlady  murmured  to  the 
slatternly  maidservant  an  ejaculatory  dia- 
tribe on  the  dissipatedness  of  young  literary 
gentlemen  as  the  door  banged.  Trenchard 
disappeared  in  the  gathering  darkness,  and 
soon  left  Smith's  Square  behind  him. 

It  chanced  that  day  that,  in  the  theatre, 
Henley  encountered  some  ladies  who  carried 
him  home  to  tea  after  the  performance.  They 
lived  in  Chelsea,  and  in  returning  to  Smith's 
Square  afterwards  Henley  took  his  way  along 
the  Chelsea  Embankment.  He  always  walked 
near  to  the  dingy  river  when  he  could.  The 
contrast  of  its  life  to  the  town's  life  through 
which  it  flowed  had  a  perpetual  fascination 
for  him.  In  the  early  evening,  too,  the  river 
presents  many  Dore"  effects.  It  is  dim, 
mysterious,  sometimes  meretricious,  with  its 
streaks  of  light  close  to  the  dense  shadows 
that  lie  under  the  bridges,  its  wailful,  small 
waves  licking  the  wharves,  and  bearing  up 
the  inky  barges  that  look  like  the  ferry-boat 


(Etje  Collaborators.  169 

of  the  Styx.  Henley  loved  to  feel  viva- 
ciously despairing,  and  he  hugged  himself  in 
the  belief  that  the  Thames  at  nightfall  tinged 
his  soul  with  a  luxurious  melancholy,  the 
capacity  for  which  was  not  far  from  render- 
ing him  a  poet.  So  he  took  his  way  by  the 
river.  As  he  neared  Cheyne  Row,  he  saw  in 
front  of  him  the  figure  of  a  man  leaning  over 
the  low  stone  wall,  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands.  On  hearing  his  approaching  foot- 
steps the  man  lifted  himself  up,  turned  round, 
and  preceded  him  along  the  pavement  with  a 
sort  of  listless  stride  which  seemed  to  Henley 
strangely  familiar.  He  hastened  his  steps, 
and  on  coming  closer  recognised  that  the 
man  was  Trenchard ;  but,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  hail  him,  Trenchard  crossed  the 
road  to  one  of  the  houses  opposite,  inserted 
a  key  in  the  door,  and  disappeared  within, 
shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

Henley  paused  a  moment  opposite  to  the 
house.  It  was  of  a  dull  red  colour,  and  had  a 
few  creepers  straggling  helplessly  about  it, 
looking  like  a  torn  veil  that  can  only  partially 
conceal  a  dull,  heavy  face. 

"  Andrew  seems  at  home  here,"  he  thought, 
gazing  up  at  the  blind,  tall  windows,  which 
showed  no  ray  of  light.  "  I  wonder " 

And  then,  still  gazing  at  the  windows,  he 


1  70 


recalled  the  description  of  the  house  where 
Olive  Beauchamp  lived  in  their  book. 

"  He  took  it  from  this,"  Henley  said  to 
himself.  Yes,  that  was  obvious.  Trenchard 
had  described  the  prison-house  of  despair, 
where  the  two  victims  of  a  strange,  desolat- 
ing habit  shut  themselves  up  to  sink,  with  a 
curious  minuteness.  He  had  even  devoted  a 
paragraph  to  the  tall  iron  gate,  whose  round 
handle  he  had  written  of  as  "  bald,  and  exposed 
to  the  wind  from  the  river,  the  paint  having 
long  since  been  worn  off  it."  In  the  twilight 
Henley  bent  down  and  examined  the  handle 
of  the  gate.  The  paint  seemed  to  have  been 
scraped  from  it. 

"  How  curiously  real  that  book  has  be- 
come to  me  !  "  he  muttered.  "  I  could  al- 
most believe  that  if  I  knocked  upon  that 
door,  and  was  let  in,  I  should  find  Olive 
Beauchamp  stretched  on  a  couch  in  the  room 
that  lies  beyond  those  gaunt,  shuttered  win- 
dows." 

He  gave  a  last  glance  at  the  house,  and  as 
he  did  so  he  fancied  that  he  heard  a  slight 
cry  come  from  it  to  him.  He  listened  atten- 
tively and  heard  nothing  more.  Then  he 
walked  away  toward  home. 

When  he  reached  his  room,  he  found  upon 
his  table  the  envelope  which  Trenchard  had 
V 


Collaborators.  171 


directed  to  him.  He  opened  it,  and  unwrap- 
ped the  key  from  the  inclosed  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  on  which  were  written  these  words  : 

"  DEAR  JACK, 

"  I  am  off  again.  And  this  time  I  can't 
say  when  I  shall  be  back.  In  any  case,  I 
have  completed  my  part  of  the  book,  and 
leave  the  finishing  of  it  in  your  hands.  This 
is  the  key  of  the  drawer  in  which  I  have 
locked  the  manuscript.  You  have  not  seen 
most  of  the  last  volume.  Read  it,  and  judge 
for  yourself  whether  the  denouement  can  be 
anything  but  utterly  tragic.  I  will  not  out- 
line to  you  what  I  have  thought  of  for  it.  If 
you  have  any  difficulty  about  iht  finale,  I  shall 
be  able  to  help  you  with  it  even  if  you  do  not 
see  me  again  for  some  time.  By  the  way, 
what  nonsense  that  saying  is,  '  Dead  men  tell 
no  tales  !  '  Half  the  best  tales  in  the  world 
are  told,  or  at  least  completed,  by  dead  men. 
"  Yours  ever, 

A.  T." 

Henley  laid  this  note  down  and  turned 
cold  all  over.  It  was  the  concluding  sen- 
tence which  had  struck  a  chill  through  his 
heart.  He  took  the  key  in  his  hand,  went 
down  to  Trenchard's  room,  unlocked  the 
12 


172  ®he  Collaborators. 

drawer  in  his  writing-table,  and  took  out  the 
manuscript.  What  did  Andrew  mean  by  that 
sinister  sentence  ?  A  tale  completed  by  a 
dead  man  !  Henley  sat  down  by  the  fire  with 
the  manuscript  in  his  hands  and  began  to 
read.  He  was  called  away  to  dinner ;  but 
immediately  afterward  he  returned  to  his 
task,  and  till  late  into  the  night  his  glance 
travelled  down  the  closely-written  sheets  one 
after  the  other,  until  the  light  from  the  can- 
dles grew  blurred  and  indistinct,  and  his  eyes 
ached.  But  still  he  read  on.  The  power  and 
gloom  of  Andrew's  narrative  held  him  in  a 
vice,  and  then  he  was  searching  for  a  clue  in 
the  labyrinth  of  words.  At  last  he  came  to 
the  final  paragraph,  and  then  to  the  final 
sentence : 

"  But  at  length  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
door  that  divided  him  from  Fate." 

Henley  put  the  sheet  down  carefully  upon 
the  table.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  room  seemed  full  of  a  strange, 
breathless  cold,  the  peculiar  chilliness  that 
precedes  the  dawn.  The  fire  was  burning 
brightly  enough,  yet  the  warmth  it  emitted 
scarcely  seemed  to  combat  the  frosty  air  that 
penetrated  from  without,  and  Henley  shiv- 
ered as  he  rose  from  his  seat.  His  brows 
were  drawn  together,  and  he  was  thinking 


Collaborators.  173 


deeply.  A  light  seemed  slowly  struggling 
into  his  soul.  That  last  sentence  of  Tren- 
chard's  connected  itself  with  what  he  had 
seen  in  the  afternoon  on  the  Chelsea  Em- 
bankment. "  He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door 
that  divided  him  from  Fate." 

A  strange  idea  dawned  in  Henley's  mind, 
an  idea  which  made  many  things  clear  to 
him.  Yet  he  put  it  away,  and  sat  down 
again  to  read  the  unfinished  book  once 
more.  Andrew  had  carried  on  the  story  of 
the  man's  growing  hatred  of  the  woman 
whom  he  had  tried  to  rescue,  until  it  had 
developed  into  a  deadly  fury,  threatening 
immediate  action.  Then  he  had  left  the  cti- 
nouement  in  Henley's  hands.  He  had  left  it 
ostensibly  in  Henley's  hands,  but  the  latter, 
reading  the  manuscript  again  with  intense 
care,  saw  that  matters  had  been  so  contrived 
that  the  knot  of  the  novel  could  only  be  cut 
by  murder.  As  it  had  been  written,  the  man 
must  inevitably  murder  the  woman.  And 
Andrew  ?  All  through  the  night  Henley 
thought  of  him  as  he  had  last  seen  him, 
opening  the  door  of  the  red  house  with  the 
tattered  creepers  climbing  over  it. 

At  last,  when  it  was  dawn,  he  went  up  to 
bed  tired  out,  after  leaving  a  written  direc- 
tion to  the  servant  not  to  call  him  in  the 


174  ®l)£  Collaborators. 


morning.  When  he  awoke  and  looked  at  his 
watch  it  was  past  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. He  sprang  out  of  bed,  dressed,  and 
after  a  hasty  meal,  half  breakfast,  half  lunch, 
set  out  towards  Chelsea.  The  day  was  bright 
and  cold.  The  sun  shone  on  the  river  and 
sparkled  on  the  windows  of  the  houses  on 
the  Embankment.  Many  people  were  about, 
and  they  looked  cheerful.  The  weight  of  de- 
pression that  had  settled  upon  Henley  was 
lifted.  He  thought  of  the  strange,  yet  illu- 
minating, idea  that  had  occurred  to  him  in 
the  night,  and  now,  in  broad  daylight,  it 
seemed  clothed  in  absurdity.  He  laughed 
at  it.  Yet  he  quickened  his  steps  toward 
the  red  house  with  the  tarnished  iron  gate 
and  the  tattered  creepers. 

But  long  before  he  reached  it  he  met  a 
boy  sauntering  along  the  thoroughfare  and 
shouting  newspapers.  He  sang  out  unflinch- 
ingly in  the  gay  sunshine,  "  Murder  !  Mur- 
der !  "  and  between  his  shouts  he  whistled  a 
music-hall  song  gaily  in  snatches.  Henley 
stopped  him  and  bought  a  paper.  He  opened 
the  paper  in  the  wind,  which  seemed  striving 
to  prevent  him,  and  cast  his  eyes  over  the 
middle  pages.  Then  suddenly  he  dropped  it 
to  the  ground  with  a  white  face,  and  falter- 
ingly  signed  to  a  cabman.  The  denouement 


CoUflb0rat0r0.  175 


was  written.  The  previous  night,  in  a  house 
on  the  Chelsea  Embankment,  a  woman  had 
been  done  to  death,  and  the  murderer  had 
crept  out  and  thrown  himself  into  the  gray, 
hurrying  river. 

The  woman's  name  was  Olive  Beauchamp. 


THE    END. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

BLEEPING  FIRES.     By  GEORGE  GISSING,  author  of 
*^       ''  In  the  Year  of  Jubilee,"  "  Eve's  Ransom,"  etc.     i6mo. 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

In  this  striking  story  the  author  has  treated  an  original  motive  with  rare 
self-command  and  skill.  His  book  is  most  interesting  as  a  story,  and  re- 
markable as  a  literary  performance. 

(^TONEPASTURES.     By  ELEANOR  STUART.      i6mo. 
M       Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  This  is  a  strong  bit  of  good  literary  workmanship.  .  .  .  The  book  has 
the  value  of  being  a  real  sketch  of  our  own  mining  regions,  and  of  showing 
how,  even  in  the  apparently  dull  round  of  work,  there  is  still  material  for  a 
good  bit  of  literature."  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

COURTSHIP  BY  COMMAND,     By  M.  M.  BLAKE. 
**•*       i6mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  A  bright,  moving  study  of  an  unusually  interesting  period  in  the  life 
of  Napoleon,  .  .  .  deliciously  told  ;  the  characters  are  clearly,  strongly,  and 
very  delicately  modeled,  and  the  touches  of  color  most  artistically  done. 
'Courtship  by  Command'  is  the  most  satisfactory  Napoleon  bonne-bouche 
we  have  had."-  —  Neiu  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


H^ 
•*• 


E   WATTER'S  MOW.   By  BRAM  STOKER.    i6mo. 
Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  Here  is  a  tale  to  stir  the  most  sluggish  nature.  ...  It  is  like  stand- 
ing on  the  deck  of  a  wave-tossed  ship;  you  feel  the  soul  of  the  storm  go 
into  your  blood."  —  New  York  Home  Journal. 

1\  /TASTER    AND    MAN.    By  Count  LEO  TOLSTOY. 
*"•    With  an  Introduction  by  W.  D.  HOWELLS.    i6mo.    Cloth, 
75  cents. 

"Crowded  with  these  characteristic  touches  which  mark  his  literary 
work."  —  Public  Opinion. 

"  Reveals  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  the  workings  of  the  human  mind, 
and  it  tells  a  tale  that  not  only  stirs  the  emotions,  but  gives  us  a  better  in- 
sight into  our  own  hearts."  —  San  Francisco  A  rgonaiit. 

^HE  ZETT-GEIST.     By  L.  DOUGALL,  author  of  "  The 

Mermaid,"  "  Beggars  All,"  etc.     i6mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 
"  One  of  the  best  of  the  short  stories  of  the  day."—  Boston  Journal. 
"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  novels  of  the  year."  —  New  York   Com- 
mercial A  dvertiser. 

"  Powerful  in  conception,  treatment,  and  influence."  —  Boston  Globe. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.  APPLETON   &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


BY  A.  CONAN  DOYLE. 

^HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD.  A 
Romance  of  the  Life  of  a  Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier. 
Illustrated,  xamo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

There  is  a  flavor  of  Dumas' s  Musketeers  in  the  life  of  the  redoubtable 
Brigadier  Gerard,  a  typical  Napoleonic  soldier,  more  fortunate  than  many 
of  his  compeers  because  some  of  his  Homeric  exploits  were  accomplished 
under  the  personal  observation  of  the  Emperor.  His  delightfully  romantic 
career  included  an  oddly  characteristic  glimpse  of  England,  and  his  adven- 
tures ranged  from  the  battlefield  to  secret  service.  In  picturing  the  ex- 
periences of  his  fearless,  hard  fighting  and  hard-drinking  hero,  the  author 
of  "The  White  Company  "  has  given  us  a  book  which  absorbs  the  interest 
and  quickens  the  pulse  of  every  reader. 

^HE  STARK  MUKRO  LETTERS.     Being  a  Series 
•^       of  Twelve  Letters  written  by  STARK  MUNRO,  M.  B.,  to  his 
friend  and   former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during  the  years  1881-1884.     Il- 
lustrated.    I2mo.     Buckram,  $1.50. 

"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock 
Holmes,  and  I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him." — Richard  It  Gal- 
lienne,  in  the  London  Star. 

"  Every  one  who  wants  a  hearty  laugh  must  make  acquaintance  with 
Dr.  James  Cullingworth." — Westminster  Gazette. 

"  Every  one  must  read ;  for  not  to  know  Cullingworth  should  surely 
argue  one's  self  to  be  unknown." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  'The  Stark  Munrp  Letters'  is  a  bit  of  real  literature.  .  .  .  Its  reading 
will  be  an  epoch-making  event  in  many  a  lile." — Philadelphia  Evening 
Telegraph. 

SEVENTH   EDITION. 

JDOUND    THE  RED  LAMP.     Being  Facts  and  Fan- 
•*•  *•     ties  of  Medical  Life.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


:ipa 
ture  can  approach  them." — Hartford  Times. 

"If  Mr.  A.  Conan  Doyle  had  not  already  placed  himself  in  the  front 
rank  of  living  English  writers  by  'The  Refugees,'  and  other  of  his  larger 
stories,  he  would  surely  do  so  by  these  fifteen  short  talcs." — New  York 
Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  strikingly  realistic  and  decidedly  original  contribution  to  modern 
literature." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &  CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

BY  S.   R.    CROCKETT. 

S~* LEG  KELLY,  ARAB   OF  THE  CITY.    His  Prog- 
^"      ress  and  Adventures.     Uniform  with  "  The    Lilac    Sun- 
bonnet  "  and  "  Bog-Myrtle  and  Peat."     Illustrated,    izmo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

It  is  safe  to  predict  for  the  quaint  and  delightful  figure  of  Cleg  Kelly  a 
notable  place  in  the  literature  ot  the  day.  Mr.  Crockett's  signal  success  in 
his  new  field  will  enlarge  the  wide  circle  of  his  admirers.  The  lights  and 
shadows  of  curious  aliases  of  Edinburgh  life,  and  of  Scotch  farm  and  rail- 
road life,  are  pictured  with  an  intimate  sympathy,  richness  of  humor,  and 
truthful  pathos  whi(5h  make  this  new  novel  a  genuine  addition  to  literature. 
It  seems  safe  to  say  that  at  least  two  characters— Cleg  and  Muckle  Ahck— 
are  likely  to  lead  Mr.  Crockett's  heroes  in  popular  favor.  Ihe  illustrations 
of  this  fascinating  novel  have  been  the  result  of  most  faithful  and  sympa- 
thetic study. 

T)OG-MYRTLE  AND  PEAT.     Third  edition.     I2mo. 
&     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that 
thrill  and  burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They 
are  fragments  of  the  author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too 
full  of  the  blood  of  rubies  and  the  life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held 
palpitating  in  expression's  grasp."— Boston  Courier. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the 
reader  for  its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal 
of  character." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  One  dips  into  the  book  anywhere  and  reads  on  and  on,  fascinated  by 
the  writer's  charm  of  manner." — Minneapolis  Tribune. 

^HE  LILAC  SUNBONNET,     Sixth  edition.    I2mo. 
•*       Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A  love  story  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  wholesome, 
sunshiny  kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who 
is  merely  a  good  and  beautiful  woman  ;  and  if  any  other  love  story  half  so 
sweet  has  been  written  this  year,  it  has  escaped  our  notice." — New  York 
Times. 

"  The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth 
of  love  between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweet- 
ness and  a  freshness,  a  naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  places  'Th« 
Lilac  Sunbonnet'  among  the  best  stories  of  the  time." — New  York  Mail 
and  Express. 

"In  its  own  line  this  little  love  story  can  hardly  bq  excelled.  It  is  a 
pastoral,  an  idyl— the  story  of  love  and  courtship  and  marriage  of  a  fine 
young  man  and  a  lovely  girl — no  more.  But  it  is  told  in  so  thoroughly 
delightful  a  manner,  with  such  playful  humor,  such  delicate  fancy,  such 
true  and  sympathetic  feeling,  that  nothing  more  could  be  desired." — Bos- 
ton Traveller. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &  CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

(J~HE    ONE   WHO  LOOKED    ON.     By  F.  F.  MOM- 
-*       TRESOR,   author  of  "Into  the  Highways    and   Hedges." 
i6mo.     Cloth,  special  binding,  $1.25. 

"The  story  runs  on  as  smoothly  as  a  brook  through  lowlands;  it  ex. 
cites  your  interest  at  the  beginning  and  keeps  it  to  the  end."— New  York 
Herald. 

"An  exquisite  story.  .  .  .  No  person  sensitive  to  the  influence  of  what 
makes  for  the  true,  the  lovely,  and  the  strong  in  human  friendship  and  the 
real  in  life's  work  can  read  this  book  without  being  benefited  by  it." — 
Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  The  book  has  universal  interest  and  very  unusual  merit.  .  .  .  Aside 
from  its  subtle  poetic  charm,  the  book  is  a  noble  example  of  the  power  of 
keen  observation." — Boston  Herald. 

/CORRUPTION.     By  PERCY  WHITE,   author  of  "Mr. 
^*"       Bailey-Martin,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  There  is  intrigue  enough  in  it  for  those  who  love  a  story  of  the  ordi- 
nary kind,  and  the  political  part  is  perhaps  more  attractive  in  its  sparkle 
and  variety  of  incident  than  the  real  thing  itself." — London  Daily  News. 

"A  drama  of  biting  intensity,  a  tragedy  of  inflexible  purpose  and  relent- 
less result."— /W/  Afall  Gazette. 


A 


HARD   WOMAN.     A  Story  in  Scenes.     By  VIOLET 
HUNT.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"An  extremely  clever  work.  Miss  Hunt  probably  writes  dialogue  bet- 
ter than  any  of  our  young  novelists.  .  .  .  Not  only  are  her  conversations 
wonderfully  vivacious  and  sustained,  but  she  contrives  to  assign  to  each  of 
her  characters  a  distinct  mode  of  speech,  so  that  the  reader  easily  identifies 
them,  and  can  follow  the  conversations  without  the  slightest  difficulty." — 
London  A  thenaum. 

"One  of  the  best  writers  of  dialogue  of  our  immediate  day.  The  con- 
versations in  this  book  will  enhance  her  already  secure  reputation." — Lon- 
don Daily  Chronicle. 

/IN  IMAGINATIVE  MAN.    By  ROBERT  S.  HICH- 
•^•^     ENS,   author   of  "  The    Green    Carnation,"    etc.      i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

"One  of  the  brightest  books  of  the  year." — Boston  Budget. 

"Altogether  delightful,  fascinating,  unusual." — Cleveland  Amusement 
Gazette. 

"A  study  in  character.  .  .  .  Just  as  entertaining  as  though  it  were  the 
conventional  story  of  love  and  marriage.  The  clever  hand  of  the  author 
of  '  The  Green  Carnation '  is  easily  detected  in  the  caustic  wit  and  pointed 
epigram." — Jeannette  L.  Gilder,  in  the  New  York  World. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.    APPLETON   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


TWO   REMARKABLE   AMERICAN   NOVELS. 
•J^HE  RED  BADGE  OF  COURAGE.     An  Episode  of 


J. 


the  American  Civil  War.     By  STEPHEN  CRANE. 
Cloth,  $1.00. 


"  Mr.  Stephen  Crane  is  a  great  artist,  with  something  new  to  say,  and 
consequently  with  a  new  way  of  saying  it.  ...  In  'The  Red  Badge  of 
Courage'  Mr.  Crane  has  surely  contrived  a  masterpiece.  ...  He  has 
painted  a  picture  that  challenges  comparison  with  the  most  vivid  scenes 
of  Tolstoy's  '  La  Guerre  et  la  Paix '  or  of  Zola's  '  La  Debacle.'  " — London 
New  Review. 

"  In  its  whole  range  of  literature  we  can  call  to  mind  nothing  so  search- 
ing in  its  analysis,  so  manifestly  impressed  with  the  stamp  of  truth,  as  'The 
Red  Badge  of  Courage.'  ...  A  remarkable  study  of  the  average  mind 
under  stress  of  battle.  .  .  .  We  repeat,  a  really  fine  achievement." — Lon- 
don Daily  Chronicle. 

'  Not  merely  a  remarkable  book :  it  is  a  revelation.  .  .  .  One  feels  that, 
with  perhaps  one  or  two  exceptions,  all  previous  descriptions  of  modern 
warfare  have  been  the  merest  abstractions." — St.  James  Gaze  fie. 

"  Holds  one  irrevocably.  There  is  no  possibility  of  resistance  when 
once  you  are  in  its  grip,  from  the  first  of  the  march  of  the  troops  to  the 
closing  scenes.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crane,  we  repeat,  has  written  a  remarkable  book. 
His  insight  and  his  power  of  realization  amount  to  genius." — Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 


TN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.     A  Romance  of  the 
•*•         American  Revolution.     By  CHAUNCEY  C.   HOTCHKISS. 
I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  whole  story  is  so  completely  absorbing  that  you  will  sit  far  into 
the  night  to  finish  it.  Tou  lay  it  aside  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  seen 
a  gloriously  true  picture  of  the  Revolution." — Boston  Herald. 

"  The  story  is  a  strong  one — a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true  Ameri- 
can to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter  until  the  eyes 
smart;  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism." — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

"The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  part  in  the 
scenes  described.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  book  is  an  addition  to  American 
literature." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  One  of  the  most  readable  novels  of  the  year.  .  .  .  As  a  love  romance 
it  is  charming,  while  it  is  filled  with  thrilling  adventure  and  deeds  of  patri- 
otic daring." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  This  romance  seems  to  come  the  nearest  to  a  satisfactory  treatment 
in  fiction  of  the  Revolutionary  period  that  we  have  yet  had." — Buffalo 
Courier. 

"  A  clean,  wholesome  story,  full  of  romance  and  interesting  adventure. 
.  .  .  Holds  the  interest  alike  by  the  thread  of  the  story  and  by  the  in- 
cidents. ...  A  remarkably  well-balanced  and  absorbing  novel." — Mil- 
waukee Journal.  

New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.  APPLETON  &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

7"V/£  REDS  OF   THE  MIDI.    An   Episode  of  the 

•*       French  Revolution.     By  FELIX  GRAS.    Translated   from 

the  Provencal  by  Mrs.  CATHARINE  A.  JANVIER.     With  an 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  A.  JANVIER.    With  Frontispiece. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

M.  Felix  Gras  is  the  official  head  of  the  Fe"librige,  the  society  of  Pro- 
vencal men  of  letters,  the  highest  honor  in  their  gift.  It  is  believed  that  the 
introduction  of  his  rare  talent  to  our  readers  will  meet  with  prompt  appreci- 
ation. 

"  In  all  French  history  there  is  no  more  inspiring  episode  than  that  with 
which  M.  Gras  deals  in  this  story  :  the  march  to  Paris  and  the  doings  in 
Paris  of  that  Marseilles  Battalion  made  up  of  men  who  were  sworn  to  cast 
down  '  the  tyrant,'  and  who  '  knew  how  to  die.'  His  epitome  of  the  motive 
power  of  the  Revolution  in  the  feelings  of  one  of  its  individual  peasant 
parts  is  the  very  essence  of  simplicity  and  directness.  His  method  has  the 
largeness  anil  the  clearness  of  the  Greek  drama.  The  motives  are  distinct. 
The  action  is  free  and  bold.  The  climax  is  in  evitable,  and  the  story  has  a 

flace  entirely  apart  from  all  the  fiction  of  the  French  Revolution  with  which 
am  acquainted." — From  Mr.  Janvier's  Introduction. 


•*• 


E  GODS,  SOME  MORTALS,  AND  LORD 
WICKENHAM.  By  JOHN  OLIVER  HOBBES.  With  Por- 
trait. lamo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Mrs.  Craigie  has  taken  her  place  among  the  novelists  of  the  day.  It 
is  a  high  place  and  a  place  apart.  Her  method  is  her  own,  and  she  stands 
not  exactly  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  career,  but  already  within  the  temple 
of  fame."  —  G.  W.  Smalley,  in  the  Tribune. 

"  Here  is  the  sweetness  of  a  live  love  story.  ...  It  is  to  be  reckoned 
among  the  brilliants  as  a  novel."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"One  of  the  most  refreshing  novels  of  the  period,  full  of  grace,  spirit, 
force,  feeling,  and  literary  charm."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

Jl/TAELCHO.     By  the  Hon.  EMILY  LAWLESS,  author  of 
J.VJ.    "Grania,"  "  Hurrish,"  etc.     ismo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A  paradox  of  literary  genius.  It  is  not  a  history,  and  yet  has  more  of 
the  stuff  of  history  in  it,  more  of  the  true  national  character  and  fate,  than 
any  historical  monograph  we  know.  It  is  not  a  novel,  and  yet  fascinates 
us  more  than  any  noveL"  —  London  Spectator. 

"  Abounds  in  thrilling  incidents.  .  .  .  Above  and  beyond  all,  the  book 
charms  by  reason  of  the  breadth  of  view,  the  magnanimity,  and  the  tender- 
ness which  animate  the  author."  —  London  Athenteum, 

"  A  piece  of  work  of  the  first  order,  which  we  do  not  hesitate  to  describe 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  literary  achievements  of  this  generation."  — 
Manchester  Guardian, 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON   &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

"  A  better  book  than  '  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,'  "—London  Queen. 

<J~HE  CHRONICLES  OF  COUNT  ANTONIO.     By 

•*       ANTHONY  HOPE,  author  of  "  The  God  in  the  Car,"  "  The 

Prisoner  of  Zenda,"  etc.     With  photogravure  Frontispiece 

by  S.  W.  Van  SCHAICK.    Third  edition,     izmo.    Cloth, 

$1.50. 

"  No  adventures  were  ever  better  worth  recounting  than  are  those  of 
Antonio  of  Monte  Velluto,  a  very  Bayard  among  outlaws.  .  .  .  To  all 
those  whose  pulses  still  stir  at  the  recital  of  deeds  of  high  courage,  we  may 
recommend  this  book.  .  .  .  The  chronicle  conveys  the  emotion  of  heroic 
adventure,  and  is  picturesquely  written." — London  Daily  News. 

"It  has  literary  merits  all  its  own,  of  a  deliberate  and  rather  deep 
order.  ...  In  point  of  execution  'The  Chronicles  of  Count  Antonio'  is 
the  best  work  that  Mr.  Hope  has  yet  done.  The  design  is  clearer,  the 
workmanship  more  elaborate,  the  style  more  colored.  .  .  .  The  incidents 
are  most  ingenious,  they  are  told  quietly,  but  with  great  cunning,  and  the 
Quixotic  sentiment  which  pervades  it  all  is  exceedingly  pleasant" — West- 
minster Gazette. 

"  A  romance  worthy  of  all  the  expectations  raised  by  the  brilliancy  of 
his  former  books,  and  likely  to  be  read  with  a  keen  enjoyment  and  a 
healthy  exaltation  of  the  spirits  by  every  one  who  takes  it  up." — The 
Scotsman. 

"  A  gallant  tale,  written  with  unfailing  freshness  and  spirit." — London 
Daily  Telegraph. 

"  One  of  the  most  fascinating  romances  written  in  English  within  many 
days.  The  quaint  simplicity  of  its  style  is  delightful,  and  the  adventures 
recorded  in  these  '  Chronicles  of  Count  Antonio '  are  as  stirring  and  in- 
genious as  any  conceived  even  by  Weyman  at  his  best." — New  York 
World. 

"  Romance  of  the  real  flavor,  wholly  and  entirely  romance,  and  narrated 
in  true  romantic  style.  The  characters,  drawn  with  such  masterly  handling, 
are  not  merely  pictures  and  portraits,  but  statues  that  are  alive  and  step 
boldly  forward  from  the  canvas."— Boston  Courier. 

"  Told  in  a  wonderfully  simple  and  direct  style,  and  with  the  magic 
touch  of  a  man  who  has  the  genius  of  narrative,  making  the  varied  incidents 
flow  naturally  and  rapidly  in  a  stream  of  sparkling  discourse." — Detroit 
Tribune. 

"  Easily  ranks  with,  if  not  above,  '  A  Prisoner  of  Zenda.*  .  .  .  Wonder- 
fully strong,  graphic,  and  compels  the  interest  of  the  most  blast  novel 
reader." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  No  adventures  were  ever  better  worth  telling  than  those  of  Count 
Antonio.  .  .  .  The  author  knows  full  well  how  to  make  every  pulse  thrill, 
and  how  to  hold  his  readers  under  the  spell  of  his  magic." — Boston  Herald. 

"  A  book  to  make  women  weep  proud  tears,  and  the  blood  of  men  to 
tingle  with  knightly  fervor.  .  .  .  In 'Count  Antonio '  we  think  Mr.  Hope 
surpasses  himself,  as  he  has  already  surpassed  all  the  other  story-tellers  of 
the  period." — New  York  Spirit  of  the  Times. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON   &  CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

BOOKS  BY  MRS.  EVERARD  COTES  (SARA  JEANNETTE  DUNCAN). 

'ITHE   STORY  OF  SONNY  SAHIB.     With  10  full- 
page  Illustrations.     12010.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

This  little  romance  of  youthful  heroism  will  fascinate  older  and  younger 
readers  alike.  It  is  a  story  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  and  the  years  which  im- 
mediately followed. 

J7ERNON'S  A  UNT.    With  many  Illustrations.    I2mo. 
"      Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Her  characters,  even  when  broadly  absurd,  are  always  consistent  with 
themselves,  and  the  stream  of  fun  flows  naturally  on,  hardly  ever  flagging 
or  forced." — London  A  thenteum. 


A 


DAUGHTER    OF    TO-DAY.     A   Novel.      121110. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  This  novel  is  a  strong  and  serious  piece  of  work  ;  one  of  a  kind  that  is 
getting  too  rare  in  these  days  of  universal  crankiness." — Boston  Courier. 


A 


SOCIAL  DEPARTURE:  How  Orthodocia  and  1 
Went  Round  the  World  by  Ourselves.  With  in  Illus- 
trations by  F.  H.  TOWNSEND.  izmo.  Paper,  75  cents ; 
cloth,  $1.75. 

"  A  brighter,  merrier,  more  entirely  charming  book  would  be,  indeed, 
difficult  to  find." — St.  Louis  Republic. 


AN  AMERICAN    GIRL    IN   LONDON.     With    80 
**•*     Illustrations   by  F.    H.   TOWNSEND.     i2mo.     Paper,   75 
cents ;  cloth,  $1.50. 

"So  sprightly  a  book  as  this,  on  life  in  London  as  observed  by  an 
American,  has  never  before  been  written." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

^HE     SIMPLE    ADVENTURES    OF    A    MEM- 
•*•       SAHIB.     With  37  Illustrations  by  F.    H.   TOWNSEND. 
i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  like  traveling  without  leaving  one's  armchair  to  read  it.  Miss 
Duncan  has  the  descriptive  and  narrative  gift  in  large  measure,  and  she 
brings  vividly  before  us  the  street  scenes,  the  interiors,  the  bewilderingly 
queer  natives,  the  gayeties  of  the  English  colony." — Philadelphia  Tele- 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.    APPLETON    &   CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 


GILBERT   PARKER'S   BEST   BOOKS. 

''THE    SEATS    OF    THE    MIGHTY.      Being    the 
•*•       Memoirs  of  Captain  ROBERT  MORAY,  sometime  an  Officer 

in  the  Virginia  Regiment,  and  afterward  of  Amherst's  Regi- 

ment.    i2mo.     Cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

For  the  time  of  his  story  Mr.  Parker  has  chosen  the  most  absorbing 
period  of  the  romantic  eighteenth-century  history  of  Quebec.  The  curtain 
rises  soon  after  General  Braddock's  defeat  in  Virginia,  and  the  hero,  a  pris- 
oner in  Quebec,  curiously  entangled  in  the  intrigues  of  La  Pompadour, 
becomes  a  part  of  a  strange  history,  full  of  adventure  and  the  stress  of  peril, 
which  culminates  only  after  Wolfe's  victory  over  Montcalm.  The  ma- 
terial offered  by  the  life  and  history  of  old  Quebec  has  never  been  utilized 
for  the  purposes  of  fiction  with  the  command  of  plot  and  incident,  the  mas- 
tery of  local  color,  and  the  splendid  realization  of  dramatic  situations  shown 
in  this  distinguished  and  moving  romance.  The  illustrations  preserve  the 
atmosphere  of  the  text,  for  they  present  the  famous  buildings,  gates,  and 
battle  grounds  as  they  appeared  at  the  time  of  the  hero's  imprisonment  in 
Quebec. 

'THE   TRAIL   OF   THE    SWORD.     A  Novel.     I2mo. 
•*•       Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Mr.  Parker  here  adds  to  a  reputation  already  wide,  and  anew  demon- 
strates his  power  of  pictorial  portrayal  and  of  strong  dramatic  situation  and 
climax."  —  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  The  tale  holds  the  reader's  interest  from  first  to  last,  for  it  is  full  of 
fire  and  spirit,  abounding  in  incident,  and  marked  by  good  character-draw- 
ing." —  Pittsburg  Times. 


1 


TRESPASSER.     I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth, 


$1.00. 


"  Interest,  pith,  force,  and  charm  —  Mr.  Parker's  new  story  possesses  all 
these  qualities.  .  .  .  Almost  bare  of  synthetical  decoration,  his  paragraphs 
are  stirring  because  they  are  real.  We  read  at  times  —  as  we  have  read  the 
great  masters  of  romance  —  breathlessly."  —  The  Critic. 

"  Gilbert  Parker  writes  a  strong  novel,  but  thus  far  this  is  his  master- 
piece. ...  It  is  one  of  the  great  novels  of  the  year."  —  Boston  Adver- 
tiser. 


H^ 


E     TRANSLATION    OF  A    SAVAGE.     l6mo. 
Flexible  cloth,  75  cents. 

"A  book  which  no  one  will  be  satisfied  to  put  down  until  the  end  has 
been  matter  of  certainty  and  assurance."  —  The  Nation. 

"A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  of  construc- 
tion." —  Boston  Home  Journal. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.   APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

A  STREET  7,V  SUBURBIA.  By  EDWIN  PUGH. 
•**  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Simplicity  of  style,  strength,  and  delicacy  of  character  study  will  mark 
this  book  as  one  of  the  most  significant  of  the  year." — .\'ew  York  Prest. 

"Thoroughly  entertaining,  and  more — it  shows  traces  of  a  creative 
genius  something  akin  to  Dickens." — Boston  Traveller. 

"  In  many  respects  the  best  of  all  the  books  of  lighter  literature  brought 
out  this  season." — Providence  News. 

"  A  clever  series  of  character  sketches." — Elmira  Telegram. 

"Rippling  over  from  end  to  end  with  fun  and  humor." — London 
Academy. 

ll/TAJESTY.     A  Novel.     By  Louis  COUPERUS.     Trans- 
•^**    lated  by  A.  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS  and  ERNEST  DOWSON. 
i2mo.    Cloth,  Si.oo. 

"No  novelist  whom  we  can  call  to  mind  has  ever  given  the  world  such 
a  masterpiece  of  royal  portraiture  as  Louis  Couperus's  striking  romance 
entitled  '  Majesty.'  "—Philadelphia  Record, 

"A  very  powerful  and  cleverly  written  romance." — New  York  Times. 

"There  is  not  an  uninteresting  page  in  the  book,  and  it  ought  to  be 
read  by  all  who  desire  to  keep  in  line  with  the  best  that  is  published  in 
modern  fiction." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

^HE  NE  W  MOON.     By  C.  E.  RAIMOND,  author  of 
•^        "  George  Mandeville's  Husband,"  etc.     i2mo.    Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  delicate  pathos  makes  itself  felt  as  the  narrative  progresses,  whose 
cadences  fall  on  the  spirit's  consciousness  with  a  sweet  and  soothing  influ- 
ence not  to  be  measured  in  words." — Boston  Courier. 

"One  of  the  most  impressive  of  recent  works  of  fiction,  both  for  its 
matter  and  especially  for  its  presentation. "  —Milwaukee  Journal. 

"The  story  is  most  graphically  told,  the  characters  are  admirably 
drawn,  and  the  moral  of  the  whole  thing  is  very  desirable  as  inculcating  an 
important  lesson." — Chicago  Journal. 

"A  surprisingly  clever  book  in  its  way,  being  direct  and  simple,  and 
true  on  every  page  to  the  author's  purpose." — New  York  Times. 

^HE  WISH.  A  Novel.  By  HERMANN  SUDERMANN. 
With  a  Biographical  Introduction  by  ELIZABETH  LEE. 
12010.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"Contains  some  superb  specimens  of  original  thought." — New  York 
World. 

"  The  style  is  direct  and  incisive,  and  holds  the  unflagging  attention  of 
the  reader." — Boston  Journal. 

"A  powerful  story,  very  simple,  very  direct"—  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  090  641     2 


SUPPLIED    BY 

THE   SEVEN  BOOKHUNTERS 

OLO    CHELSEA    STATION,    BOX    22 
NEW    YORK    11.    N.    Y 


